The Blood and Dust of War
by EttaAnn
Summary: "He glanced at Dany; she was looking at him, eyes wide, drinking his face in as if he had been water in a desert, and he could see nothing in them but love and relief. It all makes sense, they said, I was meant to find you, they said, I'm not alone anymore, they screamed."Blood of my blood," she whispered." Character study around the reveal of Jon's origins. Spoilers through S7
1. Jon

Summary: _"her violet eyes were looking at him, big and wide, drinking his face in as if he had been water in a desert, and he could see nothing in them but love, pure unadulterated love laced in joy and what looked like relief. It all makes sense, they said, I was meant to find you, they said, I'm not alone any more, they screamed."Blood of my blood," she whispered"_ A character exploration around the truth of Jon Snow's parentage. Featured pairings: Dany / Jon, Grey Worm / Missandei, Brienne / Jaime, Brienne / Tormund, slight Tyrion / Sansa.

* * *

 **1- Jon**

–

He was standing in the crypts of Winterfell when Sam started talking, the dancing flames of the lighten torches casting orange shadows on his serious face.

They had arrived a few minutes before, the castle of his childhood was even whiter with snow than he last remembered, and after hugging Arya tightly and giving Bran a tender brotherly kiss on the forehead, Sam had made his presence known. The happy reunion had been short lived, "we need to talk," his friend had said, following a short but fierce hug, face sombre, eyes piercing through him as if he was seeing him for the first time, "Bran and I have something important to tell you."

"Can it wait?" Jon had asked then, brows knitting, "there is a lot we need to discuss."

"No matter what it is that you need to discuss, Jon, you want to know this first, trust me."

He had turned toward Bran then, and his brother's face gave nothing away; gone was the little boy climbing the castle walls, filling the atmosphere with laughter and innocence when sparing with wooden swords and dull headed arrows, his features were unrecognisable, and it was not only the years that had changed them beyond recall, it was something else, something deeper and older, something frightening. Jon raised his eyebrows at him, and Bran answered the silent question with a nod of his head. The importance of the moment had weighed on his shoulders, the air heavy with a knowledge still unsaid.

"We should probably leave you to it," Dany had spoken softly, her voice a whisper, almost unheard against the cold wind, she had given a quick look to her Hand, seeking his silent agreement.

"No," Bran had spoken for the first time, voice strong and assured, "The Dragon Queen must hear this too, and perhaps Arya and Sansa shall be there as well".

Nobody had dared to contradict him, and so they had all followed his lead down to the crypts, Sam pushing his wheelchair in silence.

"Strange choice of place to discuss something important," Tyrion had said, chancing a remorseful glance at Ned Stark's statue looming solemnly over them all. "It doesn't look much like him."

Arya had snorted at that, "It's what I said the first time I came back here, but why should a Lannister care?"

She had spat the name like an insult, her wild gaze glued to Tyrion.

"If I could bring back your lord father in exchange of those who have wronged him, I would, he was a good man and while I'm not worth half of him – terrible pun fully intended, I am not your enemy"

"We do not have any time to settle old quarrels, we are not here for that," the calm voice of Bran had defused the tension at once, and soon all eyes turned back to him and Sam, both standing in front of Lady Lyanna's sepulchre.

"So?" Jon had asked them, eager to get on with it.

Sam took a deep breath and started talking: "When I was at the Citadel, I transcribed the diary of an old Septon. This man documented his entire life, even his bowel movements, the number of stairs he climbed... everything. It was one of the most boring assignments I had to do, but it did make me come across something interesting, even though I didn't realise just how important it was until I spoke to Lord Bran Stark. It was about a marriage annulment that he had issued for..."

"I don't understand why this is relevant to me," Jon had cut him, slightly irked.

"Jon, please, just listen, the important part is yet to come."

He had nodded at Sam, wordlessly allowing him to go on.

"He had issued an annulment for..." Sam paused, glancing quickly at Daenerys who's face remained unreadable, "Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."

"What?" Dany's voice was trembling, her breathing uneven, the mask she wore on her features falling apart as they contorted under the shock.

"Yes," Sam said, giving her a look of concern, but soon he turned his attention back toward Jon, "I don't know why he'd lie in his personal diary, and Bran confirmed it with his green seer ability. But that is not all, after the annulment of the union of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martel, he wedded him in a secret ceremony in Dorne... to Lady Lyanna Stark."

A heavy silence befell them all, and Jon had looked around, trying to fight his way through confusion, but none of the faces surrounding him had seemed to understand more than he did. None except for Tyrion; he suddenly let out a loud gasp, looking at Lyanna's likeness and then at Jon, then back at Lyanna, and after a few seconds of this back and forth where his eyes grew progressively wider, the dwarf turned his attention toward his lord father once more, the statue standing a few feet to his right, "It was never Ned Stark's ways..." he whispered under his breath, now glancing at Bran who nodded at him in confirmation.

"What is it?" Dany asked him then, noticing their silent exchange.

"I don't understand," Jon had interjected, frustrated with his growing confusion, "what does any of this has to do with me?"

At that, it was Sansa's turn to gasp loudly before whispering something in Arya's ear, she clasped her sister's hand, squeezing it hard inside her fist; Arya squeezed back, knuckles turning white, her confusion had turned into shock, both of them were staring at him as if they had just met him after a lifetime of searching. They looked strangely alike with their faces wearing the same expression.

"Jon..." Sam had said, voice tender, as if he had been trying to sooth a child, "don't you see?"

It is then that Bran took the lead, voice monotonous, his eyes never leaving him: "Robert's rebellion was all a lie. I have seen it. I have seen Rhaegar wed Lyanna, I have seen them loving each other, picking each other willingly, taking each other as husband and wife. Their love started a war, but a lie finished it. It ended in Dorne, with our father looking for his sister, standing at the feet of a tower where Aunt Lyanna had been hidden for protection. Rhaegar had been killed, and when he found her, it was in a bed of blood..."

Daenerys' body was shaking next to him, and he could feel its heat radiating toward him.

"...she made him promise, it was the last thing that she did before she died. She made him promise that he would protect her baby boy at all cost. And so he did. He did, during all those years. All by himself, he never told anyone, not even our mother."

Jon's head started spinning, a cold sweat streaming down his spine.

"Your name is not Jon Snow, it has never been Jon Snow, you have never even been a bastard," Bran continued, face inscrutable, "and Ned Stark wasn't your father. Lady Lyanna Stark gave birth to you in Dorne, amidst the settling blood and dust of war. Your father was the Prince of Dragonstone, Rhaegar Targaryen. Your name is not Jon Snow.." Bran said again, "It's Prince Aegon of House Targaryen, sixth of your name and true born heir to the Iron Throne."

A stunned and thick silence had greeted the end of his speech, and Jon felt Daenerys' glance burning his side, hotter than dragonfire, as she tangled her small fingers with his. Aegon Targaryen, Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen... he felt himself tremble, tears burning his eyelids as his pupils found her face of stone, his mother, did she really look that way?... Ned Stark, Stark, Targaryen... he was not a Stark, Ned Stark, the man he admired the most and had loved so well, the man who's memory he had always tried to honour and live up to, was not his father... Lyanna was his mother, he had always wanted to know and now he wished he didn't... he was a Targaryen, the only thing he had ever remembered wanting fiercely was to be a Stark, now he longed to simply be a Snow once more. He glanced at Dany; her violet eyes were looking at him, big and wide, drinking his face in as if he had been water in a desert, and he could see nothing in them but love, pure unadulterated love laced in joy and what looked like relief. It all makes sense, they said, I was meant to find you, they said, I'm not alone any more, they screamed."Blood of my blood," she whispered, her voice echoing slightly against the stone walls, "my love." He could not share her awe.

Dropping Dany's hand, he turned around, lurched forward and vomited the content of his stomach on the cold tiles, leaving nothing in him but emptiness. Behind him, he could feel the others standing as still as the statues surrounding them, their stares digging at his back, as if he was a fragile and wild beast in danger of either fleeing or baring teeth in defence at any brusque motion. Perhaps they were right.

Aegon Targaryen. The name played in his mind as foreign as it would have been on a faceless stranger. He could not be, it wasn't possible. And so, for the first time that he could remember, he ran away.

In the courtyard the cold wind bit his face like knives slicing through skin, and the arisen walls of Winterfell, casting shadowy monsters over his frame, suddenly felt as austere and unwelcoming as King's Landing – where did he belong? Jon looked up at the sky, finding himself longing for the Wall, the companionship of his brothers of the Night's Watch where nobody cared for who anybody was "before", drinking ale with Edd and Pyp, laughing with Sam in front of a crackling fire at Castle Black, listening to the stories of old Maester Aemon and the teaching of Lord Commander Mormont; they were all reborn there, they were all granted a new start, immaculate of past mistakes or of secretly looming ghosts tainting any steps they'd chose to take. He longed for the Free Folk beyond the wall, for a king with no crown to wear nor throne to sit upon, a king who refused to kneel or be kneeled to; none of them would have cared for who he was or was not as long as he could prove himself valuable. They could be family without needing blood to hold them together - Arya, Sansa and Bran weren't his siblings any longer, he felt alone. He thought of Ygritte, "You know nothing Jon Snow", how right had she been... Inexplicably - or perhaps not - Dany's face as he made love to her on a boat sailing to Winterfell, appeared in his mind, he wished he could be back there, feeling her under him, moving inside of her, unknowing and in love. They could never be.

Jon tried to focus his eyes on the dark clouds, his breathing was catching in his throat, strangled by the sobs he tried to hold back. His vision was blurred; by tears or his spinning head, he wasn't sure. He heard his screeching before he saw him; above his head, the green scales of Rhaegal appeared, ever more clear as he flew lower and lower, and Jon locked his dark eyes in the amber ones of the ferocious beast, the beating of his wings only making the winds stronger, but Jon stood there, immobile, unwavering and waiting.

Rhaegal landed in front of him with a loud thud, making the snowed earth tremble under his feet, his snout so close to his face, Jon could feel the heat of his breath and see every details of his emerald skin as he clasped his jaw at him, he was as close as Drogon had been all those weeks ago when Dany had come back from war, how could he ever have thought dragons were anything but magnificent? The beast tilted his head, eyes blinking as if asking a question, and Jon stopped thinking. Impulsively he walked toward the animal – Daenerys' child, climbed on his wing and settled on his back. The dragon looked back at him quizzically ; under him, Jon could have sworn that he felt Rhaegal's heart beating in unison with his. "Blood of my blood, my love," the words echoed in his head like the chorus of a half forgotten song.

"Fly boy," Jon muttered simply, his gloved hands holding Rhaegal's spiked spine with all his might.

And so the dragon granted his request.

A woman yelled his name as two enormous wings sprayed on each side of him, almost instantly taking flight, it could have been Sansa, Arya or perhaps Dany, Jon could neither tell nor bring himself to care in that moment.

The last thing he heard before Winterfell disappeared behind his back, was the long and plaintive howl of Ghost fading in the distance.


	2. Tyrion

**2- Tyrion**

–

Winterfell was cold and wine was warm, Tyrion rationalised pouring himself yet another glass of Dornish red. He sighed deeply, the last thing he wanted was to have this difficult conversation, and yet here he was, and yet here he stood.

"Of all the things you can have in common with Cersei, the gods chose a taste for wine," Jaime's voice was good to hear, strangely comforting amidst the shit situation they were all in. If they were all going to die, he was happy it could be next to his brother.

"What can I say, this place suffers from a severe lack of whores."

Jaime let out a barking laugh at that.

He had showed up a fortnights ago, with Bronn at his side but no army at his back. Tyrion couldn't say that he had been surprised to learn that his sister had no intention to uphold any of the promises that she had made in the Dragon pit.

"I came here to offer my sword to fight in the war to come."

Jaime had been standing in the middle of Winterfell's court, all the northern lords' eyes glaring at him, how many of them itched to have killed his brother in that instant? Probably as many as those who had wanted to kill him when he had arrived here, escorting the Dragon Queen...

"You pushed me out of the window and crippled me," Bran Stark's voice, as calm and collected as ever, had echoed in the silence that had followed Jaime's offer and the rest had happened in a blur.

Jaime had been thrown in a dusty cell in the lower part of Winterfell, waiting for the Starks to decide of his fate. To Tyrion's surprise, Brienne of Tarth had pleaded for his life to Lady Sansa Stark with all the might that she could muster, "I owe him my life," she begged "please.. my lady..." and Tyrion was grateful to have at least one ally in his quest to rescue his pig-headed brother.

"It was stupid of you to come unmanned, and before agreeing on any terms at that," he had said to Jaime, as he was visiting his jail, he could barely make out his brother's frame in the darkness. He had been allowed three minutes; "If you stay one second more, I'll kill the both of you." If rumours were true, Arya Stark's words were not to be taken lightly.

"Our sister did say that I was the stupidest Lannister," Jaime had answered dryly, "perhaps she is right."

Tyrion had sighed, rubbing his temples, trying to chase away the headache that had been building behind his eyes for days now. Wine did have some side effects.

"It appears that, against all odds, even our dear sister has good insights once in a blue moon."

Jaime had snorted, "If I die here, at least I'll have tried."

Tried what? To do the right thing? To do the brave and honourable thing? Fuck him and his righteousness, fuck him and his honour, Tyrion thought forcefully, Daenerys was right, heroes do stupid things and they die, "I shall try and reason with the King in the North and his lady sisters, you will not die here, or not like this anyway."

He had come closer to the wooden bars holding his brother prisoner, trying to see him clearer against the darkness, "In the meantime, please don't do anything stupid... stupider I mean. Don't prove Cersei right once more, my sense of self would not survive it."

And so he had. He had pleaded to Jon to let Jaime pledge his sword to him, they needed all the hands they could get, and Jaime, if not the brightest, had always been an excellent swordsman, "I know he only has one hand left" he had joked, "but it is still a good one."

"I'm not a king," Jon had answered sombrely, "why not pledge to the Queen."

"For as long as you have not kneeled publicly for all your lords to see, you are still a king in their eyes, and I'm willing to bet that you will remain their king even after that. The Starks are the ones currently letting my brother rot away in a cell, not Queen Daenerys, the decision is yours, pardon my brother and let him fight..."

"I am not a Stark." Jon noted, cutting Tyrion's speech, his eyes were fixated somewhere above his short frame. It wasn't the first time that the northerner had uttered those words, but it was the first time that he had heard them hold such a new and powerful meaning, "I was made king based on a lie. It is only but a matter of time until everybody else finds out."

What had happened after the truth of his heritage had been revealed to him, Tyrion hadn't exactly been made privy of. He knew that Jon had flown away on Rhaegal's back and that Daenerys had went after him, convincing him to come back, but things hadn't exactly been the same since then, the two of them had hardly talked, each enclosed in their own minds, it was something that he would need to discuss with his queen in due time, not that he looked forward to any of it. An army of dead men, dragons, a mad monarch who happened to be his cunt of a sister, an idiot for a brother clearly set on getting himself killed, brooding queens and kings lost to the torment of burgeoning passion... Tyrion couldn't tell what he feared most.

"You have not been made king based on any birthright, Jon Snow," Tyrion pointed out, "You have said before that the wars of the past don't matter any more, and you were right. Be right once again, allow him to pledge you his sword."

Jon had gotten up from his desk chair to stand in front of the window, dark eyes lost in the distance "Even if this was true, how can I trust the Kingslayer? He has proven not to be above breaking an oath..."

"I guess you have more in common with him that you thought then," Tyrion said, pointedly.

Jon's eyes had flashed back at him with burning hot anger, looking very much the part of the dragon that he had been revealed to be in that instant, and Tyrion fought the urge to back away, "I pledged my life to the Night's Watch, and I gave it, I wasn't beholden to those vows any longer."

"That is up for interpretation," Tyrion had said then, mentally refusing to back down. The northern king hadn't answered anything to that, and so he had went on, "I do think you were right to leave the Wall for what it's worth, it was necessary to protect the realm, just like Aerys' death had been necessary at the time. What should oaths be worth if they lead to the wrong outcomes?"

No answer came to that, and Tyrion breathed heavily, he wasn't sure when he had signed up to reason with stubborn northern fools. More wine would be most welcome.

"He still tried to kill my brother," Jon finally said after a long minute of silence.

"Jaime has made many mistakes, getting far too involved with my sister being the crown jewel of all of those. But what usefulness is there in his death? If he dies, he dies, but perhaps it'd be better for everyone involved if he lived first, fighting another day against a common enemy, including for your brother."

Jon darted his eyes back through the window, breathing heavy, "If we die, we die, but first we'll live", he whispered to himself, it sounded oddly like a prayer. Tyrion didn't think he had ever seen anyone look so fundamentally unhappy, how ironical that the son of Rhaegar Targaryen hated to be a king more than he hated anything else in this world. Perhaps, it was part of what made him such a good leader, one that people wanted to follow rather than having to be made to. He was Ned Stark's heir in everything but blood and name, a blind man could have seen it, except, apparently, for the man himself.

"Jaime came here unmanned, offering nothing but his sword, he put his trust in you much like you did when you came to Dragonstone all those months ago. Maybe it is time for you to be true to your words, to trust in a stranger in a time of great perils. 'I'm asking you to trust in a stranger,'" Tyrion quoted, "I seem to recall a wise man saying that once, not that long ago."

Jon snorted loudly, "And what does the Queen think of any of that?"

"She thinks we need all the help we can get, as, if we lose, then her child died for nothing."

No reply had come after that.

A day later, Jaime had been kneeling in front of Jon, Widow's Wail impaled on the ground, swearing fealty to the first monarch that had ever truly deserved his allegiance. "You have made the right decision," Tyrion had told the northern king later, while downing a glass of wine. "Gods know that Jaime has kneeled to worse monarchs before, and you'll come to find out that you've had had worse knights."

If the king picked up on the light teasing, he did not let it show, "Arya is not entirely convinced of that."

"Lady Arya doesn't like us Lannisters much."

"Aye, she doesn't. Hard to fault her though."

He couldn't argue with that, Tyrion thought, pouring the king a glass and handing it to him.

"Though if you want her to warm up to you, perhaps you should stop calling her a lady."

Tyrion chuckled, taking another sip of wine, "You might be pleasantly surprised, you know, it wouldn't surprise me if a large enough contingent of the Lannister's army was marching on Winterfell as we speak, and not to attack it, but to fight alongside Jaime. Many of those men are far more loyal to him than they are to my sister. Fear is all she has."

Jon took a sip of his glass and glanced at him, "Bran made the decision in the end, we will see if the risk pays off or not."

"Lord Stark might be the one person in the world who's decision none ever need to question."

Jon nodded at him, and here it was, the silence again. Stark men had always been of few words and Lannisters of too many, and perhaps that was why they had had such a tough time getting along before, what an odd pairing they were making, stumbling upon some sort of strange friendship, or whatever it was that they wished to call this curious affection brewing in between them.

"How is the Queen," Jon asked suddenly as if he had wanted to ask for hours - perhaps even days - without daring.

"Brooding," Tyrion answered, "I think she and you are having some sort of competition, and let me tell you, she's winning."

The ghost of a tentative smile had played on Jon's lips for a fleeting second, but disappeared as soon as it came.

"How long will this dance between you two keep going?"

"We are not dancing."

"Your feet are moving and you're circling each other, that is the definition of dancing."

Jon's eyes fell to his cup, awkwardly scrutinising its empty bottom as if it had been the most interesting thing he had seen all day. He opened his mouth once, twice, a third time... hesitating, until finally he said: "She does know that I have no wish for a throne, any throne, and certainly not the Iron Chair, right? I never even wanted the one I'm currently sitting upon, and it's only made of wood."

Tyrion paused before replying, gravely considering him, examining his face, searching for any shadow of a lie, but the man sitting in front of him was still very much Ned Stark's son in every ways that mattered, honest to a fault. "Perhaps, it would be easier for her to know that if you stopped avoiding her, and perhaps, one could be forgiven for wondering if you might want a throne made of iron seeing as you have yet to tell your lords that you have given up the wooden one on one's behalf."

Jon inhaled, rubbing the sides of his eyes at the top of his nose, "It is not why I haven't told them," he assured in a tired voice, "I simply believe that it wouldn't be wise to do it without presenting an united front."

"A smart move," Tyrion nodded.

He could only agree to that, and yet... yet... there was still one thing that Jon Snow hadn't addressed, one reason as to why he was avoiding their Queen, perhaps even the main one. It was left hanging thick in the air. Matters of the heart always complicated politics, it was entirely too bad that their current predicament didn't leave much room for complications.

But for better or for worse, Tyrion was not Jon Snow's Hand, and so he did not press on.

–

The last thing Tyrion wanted was to have this difficult conversation, and yet here he was, and yet here he stood.

He could hear the cling and clang of swords yielded by training men and women in the courtyard, some of them only boys and girls who couldn't be older than three and ten. Jon's voice was echoing, strong and authoritarian in the distance: "Do not forget to protect your face." He wondered how much those advices would matter when the army of the dead would be marching upon them, terrifying skeletal arms and icy swords in hand.

He knocked at her door and didn't wait for her invitation to enter, she was expecting him. He had to suppress a laugh when he saw her brooding by the window, her hair tied in intricate braids, it was a wonder that he hadn't figured out their common blood before. Her wistful gaze was directed down toward the courtyard and there was no mistaking the longing etched on her features.

"Your Grace," he said, clearing his throat, unsure if she had heard him enter.

She turned toward him, tearing her eyes away from Jon, she had been watching him, of that he was certain, "You wished to speak to me my lord?".

She had regained her composure immediately, standing strong and unreadable before him, her voice assured, as queenly as she had ever been.

"Yes... erm... I don't know how to bring this up to you exactly."

"Speak your mind," she commanded in a voice that suffered no disobeying.

"We need to talk about Jon, your grace."

"There is nothing to talk about," she answered turning her gaze back to the outside.

This time she looked at the sky, where Rhaegal and Drogon were circling the castle, screeching at each other in sorrow.

"They miss Viserion," Daenerys said wistfully, "so do I."

Tyrion felt great sadness descend upon him and swallowing him whole, he wasn't sure she'd have believed it if he had said it, but Viserion had always been his favourite, he was the sweetest of the three, even he could tell.

"I used to have three Dragons," she continued, "and now I only have one, Rhaegal is not mine any longer either, not since he chose his rider."

Tyrion considered her words carefully, "Are you afraid that Jon Snow... I mean.. _Aegon Targaryen_ might take even more from you?"

Her gaze travelled down the courtyard once more, and he could tell exactly when her eyes found him in the crowd as there was no mistaking the longing drawing itself on her features.

"He doesn't want the throne, your grace, he told me as much."

"I know," she said.

"And yet, you are still worried."

She closed her eyes tightly, inhaling sharply, and Tyrion wondered if perhaps she was holding back her tears, there were only but a few people Daenerys had ever allowed herself to show weakness in front of, and her Hand wasn't one of them.

"I am not worried that Jon might want the throne, I know he doesn't, he told me back when... anyway... I just don't know where my purpose is any longer."

"Why," he asked, confused, "you are still our queen."

"My campaign rested entirely on the fact that I was the last Targaryen, the rightful heir, except... as it turns out, I am not."

"Is that what you think?" Tyrion took steps toward her, planting his eyes in hers, "I can assure you, my queen, that none of us are following you because of who your father was, do you truly think the Dothrakis or the Unsullied crossed the Narrow Sea because of your name? They didn't. I didn't. We are here because we chose you. We picked you."

Dany blinked at him, her lips trembling, her mask falling apart for a few painful seconds before she turned away, straightening herself up, focusing her attention back toward the window. "They might want to follow somebody like Jon."

He was standing next to her now, following her gaze with his own, he found him down in the courtyard, his Valyrian steel sword in hand, dark curls escaping the bun that held his hair back.

"Perhaps," he conceded.

"Someone who can produce a heir," she added, her voice so full of tears she failed at covering it up completely.

Tyrion stared at the side of her face, beautiful and ethereal in the glowing winter light, what was it that truly concerned her? That her followers might want to follow someone that could assure a future? Or that she might have to give him up as to insure that her family name would survive?

"There are plenty of easy ways to deal with the issue of Jon Snow," Tyrion suggested then, testing her. The tone of his voice leaving no place for interpretation.

He did not have to wait long to get the answer to his inner question, suddenly the heat from her body was radiating toward him, her purple iris set ablaze, she spat at him in a cold voice, and perhaps, it was her calmness that was most frightening (do not wake the dragons, they used to say about the Targaryens): "Suggest something like this ever again and I'll have Drogon burn you on the spot."

She meant every single words, he was sure of that.

He raised up his palms in surrender, "I wouldn't be a good Hand if I hadn't," he pointed out, "I do not wish for it, I'm rather fond of Jon Snow myself, and neither politically nor militarily are we in a position to make enemies of northmen."

She did not reply, her burning cold eyes glued to him, waiting for him to go on.

"But your reaction tells me everything I need to know about your... fondness for him."

"My fondness for him?" She asked, eyebrows raised, feigning innocence.

Tyrion rolled his eyes, because frankly, this dull game of denial was starting to wear down on him a bit, everybody knew, neither of them were particularly good at hiding it. "You are in love with Jon Snow. I told you once that Daario Naharis was not the first to love you and wouldn't be the last, and here we are."

She turned away from him once more, her voice was rushed when she spoke "My love life is none of your concern."

"It is my concern when it clouds your judgement," Tyrion insisted. "All I ask is for you to be careful, you'd burn anyone who'd cross him wouldn't you?"

She opened her mouth in clear protest, but he didn't leave her any time to lie to herself: "You just said as much, there is no point denying it. It goes beyond a family bond that you have just found out about, you loved him before that, you'd have done it before that."

"No judgement will be clouded," she assured after a pause, refusing to meet his eyes.

"But they already were!" Tyrion could hear his own frustration lacing his every words, "they were when you went north to save him and lost Viserion, they were when you chose to sail with him despite it not being the safest option, they are now when you spend your days longing and brooding instead of doing what needs done. They were and they are."

He stood there for a few minutes, looking at the side of her face staring down, her eyes still fixated on Jon training in the courtyard, waiting for an answer that did not come. He had said his mind, given his advice, this is what he was here for, what she did with it was her own choice.

"All I ask," he insisted again before leaving, looking back at her, doorknob in hand. The white winter light piercing through the window was framing her like a halo, "is for you to be careful."


	3. Sansa

**3- Sansa**

–

Food had been one of the only things on her mind as of late: "We need more," she told Lord Glover, brows furrowed, adjusting the fur around her neck in a vain effort to fight off the biting cold, her calculating gaze fixated on the pile of grains awaiting storage.

"I thought you said that it would be enough to feed Winterfell and anyone who might flee here, my Lady?" He was considering her intently, eyes questioning, snowflakes catching in his grey beard. It had been snowing for days on end now.

"That was before Jon brought back with him the Dragon Queen with an entire army of Dothrakis and Unsullied at her back, they need to eat as well."

"Why should we waste resources feeding savages and mercenaries?" Lord Glover had snarled then, his tone harsh.

She closed her eyes, breathing in and out, the cold air prickling at the back of her throat, as she tried to ignore the ball of stress that she had constantly been carrying in the pit of her stomach. She had been but just a young child the last time she had felt light and worry-less, nesting herself against the warmth of Lady's fur in the depth of the night, dreaming of golden princes and fairy tale's crowns that did not exist. She was exhausted.

"Those mercenaries and savages are your king's guests, and they might as well win this war against the dead for you, my Lord, perhaps you should not be so dismissive," she tried to keep her tone as equal and measured as she could, covering up her annoyance. How had her lord father dealt with the lot of them for so long and not turned insane?

"I didn't mean to..."

"You never mean anything Lord Glover, perhaps you should consider talking less," she fought the urge to roll her eyes at him before continuing in an assertive voice that suffered no objection: "We need more."

"Of course my Lady," he said then, eyes lowered in respect.

She dismissed him with a gesture of her hand, her patience wearing too thin to deal with him any longer that day.

"Your brother was right, you _have_ started to let on."

Tyrion Lannister's voice resounded behind her, and for the space of one second, she was four and ten again; a lost girl in the heat of King's Landing, draped in flowing summer dresses and intricate hairdos, nothing but a toy caught in between the claws of hungry lions, alone and afraid.

She collected herself quickly, turning around to face him, "And just what is it that I have started to let on, Lord Tyrion?"

He send a tentative smile her way, his hand nursing a cup of wine, "Just how smart you are, my Lady."

She returned his smile, closing the space between them and gesturing toward the cup that he was holding, "what will you do once Winterfell's wine reserve runs dry? We do not have that much of it, you see."

He shrugged, "I'll down your disgusting northern ale reserve then, should take a bit longer."

She laughed, her first real laugh in days; ever since Jon had came back with a queen at his side and their fragile family equilibrium had been shattered under the weight of hidden secrets, the occasions had been few and far between.

"I must apologise, my Lady," Tyrion said, laughter fading from his lips, "I have not properly talked to you since we arrived here, but given everything that happened, I hope you will understand."

"I should apologise likewise then, my head has been quite busy as well."

They fell in a comfortable silence, watching half a dozen of carts escorting grains inside the castle's walls.

"You have talked about me with my brother then," she finally spoke, more to break the silence than to make conversation.

"But only positively," he confirmed.

"I told him you had always treated me with kindness, my Lord."

He had a sad smile, his eyes lost in the distance, as if to summon a long buried memory: "I guessed. He would have had my head otherwise."

She couldn't argue with that and so she returned his smile again.

"He is being a stubborn fool, your brother," Tyrion pointed out.

"That he is," she agreed in a sigh. "But would we all be here, united against the threat to the north, if he was anything but?"

After all, hadn't her brother stubbornly gone to Dragonstone against everybody else's best advice?

"Perhaps not," Tyrion admitted with a nod of his head, "but monarchs should know better than to let personal matters get in the way of duty."

Sansa frowned, silently wondering if they were still talking about Jon, "And who exactly are you avoiding by drinking outside, Lord Tyrion?"

"Who says I'm avoiding anyone," he answered, shooting a quick side glance at her.

"No southern lord would willingly drink in such cold weather simply because he enjoys it."

He paused, eyebrows frowned in worry, and downing the rest of his cup in a sigh, he replied: "Let's just say that you aren't alone dealing with brooding foolish monarchs those days."

They fell into silence once more, listening to the winter winds whistling in the nearby pine trees; in truth, Sansa didn't really know what to think of the Dragon Queen yet, their exchange had been limited to polite conversations around the dining table and heated debating in council meeting. She was pleasant, very beautiful, exuded power... and seemed to have a thing for her brother.

When Tyrion broke the silence, tearing her away from her thoughts, his voice had turned tender and warm: "It is good to see you so well, my Lady."

"Likewise, my Lord."

They shared yet another smile.

"We need to talk about Jon."

Arya was suddenly standing next to them, hand playing with the pommel of Needle, the white silhouette of Ghost standing tall and imposing behind her. Her sister's ability to sneak would never cease to amaze her, Sansa thought. Sometimes, she still frightened her.

"Alone," Arya added glaring at Tyrion.

"It seems that it is time for me to retreat and work some more on emptying those wine barrels of yours, it would be a shame if they went to waste in the very likelihood that we all die" he said, "Arya, Lady Sansa." He gave them both a respectful nod of his head before disappearing behind one of the courtyard's doors.

"He is being an idiot," Arya continued as they both started to walk in the opposite direction, Ghost on their heels, following them as silently as a spring breeze.

Sansa had a joyless chuckle, "If I had grains each time people told me that Jon is acting like a fool, our food problem would sort itself out in no time."

"Perhaps I should beat some sense into him," Arya proposed calmly, her blazing eyes betraying her hurt as she ignored her sister's attempt at ironising.

Sansa stopped on her track, looking her directly in the eyes, "Arya... this is not something you can resolve with a sword," she paused for a few seconds, picking her words carefully, "I know that Jon has always been your favourite, and you his. You miss him, I understand that, but we need to give him time."

Arya shot her a frustrated glance, left fingers still fidgeting at Needle's pommel. Ghost sat at her feet, his enormous form towering over her as he lowered his head to nestle his muzzle under her free hand: "I hope you are right." she said in a whisper.

–

Sansa had a headache, a piercing, pounding headache that she could not get rid of, she needed more sleep, she was pretty sure. Being in the same room as the Dragon Queen and Jon, for what could have been hours for all she knew, was positively exhausting, the tension could have been cut with a knife, and that wasn't even accounting for the debating lords and ladies that made up the patchwork of personalities that was their war council.

"How do you propose that I explain to my men why they're to be the spear fodder at all times, while northmen get to defend sieges?" Daenerys asked, her face giving nothing away.

"Aren't they a bought army of slaves?" Lord Glover inquired, looking at her dismissively.

The Queen turned her face toward him, staring at him purposefully, "They are free men." The heat of her glance made the lord quiver and squirm uncomfortably in his seat, "I understand that you want to protect your people my Lord," the Queen added, "but it cannot be at the unfair expense of mine."

"Mercenaries at the service of a foreign invader!" A lord had shot, his voice echoing against Winterfell's stoned walls. "We are northmen, we should defend our own holds!"

"The Wall has fallen," Jon's solemn voice had arisen amidst the perceptible tension, his attention now focused on his lords. It was the first time that he had spoken since the council had started and all eyes fell on him. He had been silent until then, listening intently, eyes introspective. Daenerys' hungry stare had kept darting at his profile, trying and failing at discretion: they had been playing this silent game of cat and mice since the beginning. "Bran saw it fall. We have no time to settle any old quarrels among ourselves, we have no time for any of that, the army of the dead is marching upon us as we speak, perhaps it is time for everybody to learn to respect each other."

"Your grace, I didn't mean to..." the lord started, looking at Jon, a contrite expression on his face.

But Sansa did not leave him any time to finish; "None of that will matter if we cannot feed everybody," she had said abruptly, voice tired.

"Sansa is right," to her surprise, Jon had interjected in her favour, "but perhaps the queen can help with that?" he added then, finally returning Daenerys a fierce glance.

The burning intensity of their gaze was palpable as they finally locked eyes, and Sansa felt her breath catch in her throat. The two monarchs were peering at each other, as if suddenly unaware of all eyes surrounding them and watching them intently.

"Can I?" she questioned, voice mild.

"You are still holding the Reach aren't you?"

"Yes, and I cannot take all their food from them, Jon Snow."

"I never meant to imply that we should make them hand over everything, your grace." He was the first to look away, unable the bear the weight of her flaming glance.

"Don't you?" the queen had asked then, and Sansa could have sworn that she heard her voice break. "Want to run away with everything they can give?"

Somewhere along the line, they had stopped talking about the food, their double speak as obvious as snow in winter, and Sansa wanted nothing more but to disappear inside of the ground of this fortress that she was the lady of. She felt as if she was intruding in a conversation that was meant to be anything but public, _that should have been anything but public._

"Dany..." the nickname had rolled off his tongue sweetly, voice tender, his softening dark eyes turning back toward hers.

Davos cleared his throat loudly, coming to the rescue of his king.

"There is no need to be so dramatic," Tyrion said then, directing a warning glance at his queen. It took a few second for her to find her unreadable mask again, clasping her hands in front of her lower belly. "We will send a raven to the Reach and ask if they have anything to spare," Tyrion continued, "in the meantime, we should resolve the question of where the Unsullied should be..."

Nobody was listening to him, an awkward atmosphere had rendered the air unbreathable and everybody was grateful when Jaime Lannister barged through the door, saving them all from suffocation.

"Eight hundred of my men are marching on Winterfell as we speak, your grace." He had said pridefully, looking at Jon, oblivious of what had just transpired, "Hopefully, this is only but a start."

Jon and Tyrion exchanged a quick glance, "Very well, Ser Jaime", the king said, "we need all the help we can get."

–

She should have known that he would be here, Sansa thought, as she found him down the crypt a while later, staring up at their Lord father, seemingly lost in his reverie.

"If you are here to tell me that I was a fool to act the way I did earlier, there is no need, I already know," he said without looking at her.

She stood next to him in silence for a while, collecting her thoughts, the light of the torch surrounding them making their faces glow red in the darkness, "I am not here to lecture you," she finally said, "what is done is done. But they will talk."

She breathed hard, closing her eyes for an instant, before looking back up at her lord father, standing stiff on his altar of stone, "Not that you'd ever listen to me if I did," she added in a low voice, more for her benefit than his.

He did not reply.

"How long is this going to keep happening?" She questioned then, surprised by her own impatience. So much for letting him work through it. Arya's frustrated face flashed in her mind, she couldn't even take her own advice.

"I have no idea what you are talking about." He answered, his voice even but never looking at her.

She rolled her eyes, "Oh please now, you aren't that stupid, you now exactly what I am speaking about, you are pushing everyone away, your family..." she cut herself, her breath catching, how could he not see?

He pressed his palm against his eyes, his breathing quickening, and after a moment of silence he finally spoke, his voice heavy: "It appears as if you were right, back when we were children, when you refused to call me your brother."

The hurt clawed at her chest and clasped at her throat like poison, and refusing to let it show to him, she strengthened her spine and took his hand away from his eyes, "Look at me," she asked him softly, "Jon, you have hardly looked at anyone for days, except for that green dragon of yours, look at me."

And so he did.

"I was wrong when I was a child, a stupid naive little girl who did not realise what she was wishing for and ended up worse for it. You were my brother then, and you are my brother now, nothing has changed."

He dropped her hands and lowered his gaze, prodding the ground with his toe, suddenly fascinated with the pattern of the tiled floor.

"Don't become the lone wolf, Jon, please, I'm asking you."

"Well, I would need to be a wolf for that," he said in a matter of fact tone, turning his eyes back toward their father, anger stretching on his face.

"You are a wolf Jon, Ned Stark is still your father, you are more like him than..."

"He lied to me," his harsh and unforgiving voice, sent a shiver down her spine.

She took a deep breath, "He did it to protect you! And even if... Aunt Lyanna was as much of a Stark as I and Arya are, wasn't she?"

He did not reply, absently playing with the pommel of Longclaw still hanging at his hip, seemingly lost in his own head, only the quick glance he gave Lady Lyanna's statue betrayed that he had heard her.

"You are in love with her aren't you?" She quizzed him then, eyes narrowing, Little Finger's voice echoed in her mind like a warning: 'An alliance makes sense, together they'd be difficult to defeat'.

"Even if I was," he said after a pause, "it doesn't matter any longer, it can never be."

"And why is that, might I ask? After all, it makes political sense."

Jon looked up at her, failing to hide the sadness that was pooling behind his dark eyes, "My father was her brother."

Sansa peered at him carefully, "Such things have not been unheard of. I mean... the Targaryen used to..."

His joyless laughter cut her off, "And since I am a Targaryen, it means that I should see no issue in fucking the family?"

His crassness took her aback, "It is not what I meant."

"It is what you said."

"If you would just let me finish..."

But with that, he had stormed off.

Sansa did not know how long she stood there, looking thoughtfully at her father's face, silently asking questions he'd never be able to answer any longer, the statue looked gloomy under the red fire of the lighten torches.

She stood there, unmoving, until footsteps resounded behind her.

"I apologise, Lady Sansa, I was told that the king would be here," Jaime Lannister was standing behind her, looking very much out of place in his new Stark garbs.

"Well, clearly, he isn't" she replied simply.

The Lannister considered her for a moment, balancing his weight on one foot and then the other.

"If there is something you mean to ask, then ask," she had no time to spare for games.

"I can't help but feel like there is something going on with the king that I'm not aware of."

Sansa shot him a side glance, studying his face in suspicion. So it had started already; the whispers. "Even if that was the case, no one would trust you with such information."

"Why have accepted my fealty, then?" His voice sounded like a dare.

She turned toward him fully, staring him down, impervious to his charm offensive, "Your life is pledged to Jon, it now belongs to him - and make no mistake, Ser Jaime, at the first sign of treachery we will see fit to have your head follow suit with that hand of yours." Just as your family did to my father, she added for herself, giving the face of stone one last glance.

"That is fair," he answered simply.

She did not reply, walking past him in silence, it had been a long day and she knew that her work had just began.

* * *

 _AN: I can not thank people enough for the response to this, it was much appreciated, I really didn't expect it. At least one chapter a week should be published from there on, thank you in advance if you stick with it until then._


	4. Arya

**4- Arya**

–

Winterfell was entirely too full of Lannisters, Arya decided.

Jaime Lannister was standing tall and golden a few feet away from her, yielding a sword that belonged to her family by right; how easy would it have been to bring him winter here and then. He would never see her coming, never even hear her; he would only feel the cold steal of her Valyrian dagger against his jugular as it sliced through his skin, the sound of him chocking on his own blood ever so sweet as he'd collapse on the ground drenching the snow a crimson red. She could claim back one half of Ice then, returning it where it belonged. But Jaime Lannister had never made it on her list, Bran had decided against it, and so it was.

"Is everything alright my Lady?"

Brienne of Tarth had too much affection for Jaime Lannister, Arya knew that much. The lady knight's eyes travelled to him and then back at her, brows knitted in worry.

"Everything is fine," Arya answered, turning back her attention toward him.

She clasped her hand behind her back, trying to chase away her tension, and Ghost, as if he had sensed it, had lain at her feet, almost invisible in the white snow.

"He's been following you around," Brienne noted, gesturing toward the direwolf.

"He's been lonely," Arya said, "so have I."

"His Grace... your brother will come around," Brienne said, stumbling awkwardly upon her words.

Arya rose an eyebrow at her without answering. If she was honest, this wasn't how she had imagined that her reuniting with Jon would go. It had started well enough; she had seen him arrive from afar as she stood vigil atop the walls of Winterfell. He rode under the Stark's banners, horses racing toward the gates, her heartbeat racing with them. For the space of one instant, she was just Arya again, before the faceless men, before Braavos and King's Landing, a child playing pretend warriors with her favourite brother - she'd often chose to be Queen Visenya Targaryen back then, he, however, most often would chose to be a knight who's name would always be Stark, how ironical it was now.

He had stopped in the middle of the courtyard where Sansa and Bran had been waiting, the darkness of dawn making him look but a shadow. He had his back at her, black locks falling on his shoulders, he looked older and stronger, she had thought as she watched him help a queen with silver hair - so alike the stories of her childhood - off a grey horse.

She had come closer silently, holding her breath in anticipation, "I missed you, big brother," she said simply, letting her emotions spill all over her voice.

His shoulder had visibly stiffened at her words, he turned slowly, as if afraid she'd disappear if he had reacted too fast, "Arya...," he said in a breath, it sounded almost like a question.

They had run into each other then, and she had jumped at his neck, locking her legs around his waist, "I missed you, big brother," she repeated again and again like a mantra.

"You are not dead," he whispered as an answer as if he could still not quite believe it.

And Arya had laughed through tears, unable to hold the joy in, hugging him as tightly as she could, she'd never let him go again.

He was the one to entangle himself from her as to go and grab Bran's face in between the palms of his hands, planting a kiss on his forehead, smiling softly against his skin. She could not detach her eyes from him, he was alive, and he was there.

But then, Samwell Tarly had entered the scene, and everything had gone to shit.

–

"We need to send them to the Umbers as fast as possible, they should already be there," Jon was talking to the Hound a few feet away from her, his eyes fixated on the newly forged Dragonglass weapons that were piled in a wooden box laid at his feet.

To say that she had been surprised to see Sandor Clegane alive was an understatement, but seeing him arrive at Jon's side, as if he had been a knight pledged to the King in The North, made the reality of his presence that much more surreal if possible.

"Are ya gonna kill me?" He had asked her that day, in his unmistakable boorish voice. She had been standing in the courtyard, looking up at the white snowy sky and processing the shock of having just witnessed Jon fly away on Daenerys Targaryen's green dragon, when she had noticed his presence, his half burned face as haunting as in her memories.

"You were on my list," she answered after a few seconds, forcing herself to swallow this new information - she had no time to linger on it any more than necessary.

He sprayed his arms wide in obvious invitation, "Then do it now, girl, won't stop ya."

But she didn't respond, she simply looked up at him, his imposing form towering against the rising light, and unable to sort through the mess of emotions that were going through her head, she did not move.

"Yeah, you're right," he had grumbled then at her lack of answer, "cunts like me don't deserve the relief of death."

Days later, she still couldn't quite figure out what he was doing in Winterfell, what motivated him to be here. After all, he did not call Jon his King nor Daenerys his Queen and to her knowledge, he had no one to call his Lord either, but yet, here he was, his cavernous voice rasping in her ears: "Cunts at the forge aren't working fast enough."

"Everybody is already late," Jon answered him, tiredness in his voice, "we can't lose any more time. Last Hearth has been manned, they need those weapons and they need them now"

"It's lucky those white fuckers march so slow," the Hound noted before leaving, "I'll see through it."

"Remember when father made wooden swords for you and Robb and I cried so hard because all I had was a rag-doll?" Arya had come closer, slow and unnoticed, like she would have had a target.

He had a startled jump, turning to face her, "I remember," he said in a distant voice.

"Do you remember what you did then?"

Jon was silent for a second, his dark grey eyes unfocused into the distance, a thoughtful expression painted on his face, "Aye, I do. I gave you the sword."

"And all I gave you in return was the doll, but you kept it, I remember, Theon never let you hear the end of it and Robb..." she paused, voice catching in her throat. The image of Grey Wind's head sewed unto her big brother's body still burned under her eyelids. She'd never be able to forget it, she knew, no matter how hard and deep she tried to bury the memory. "I was there you know," she said then, her voice strangling in a dry sob, suddenly unable to keep it to herself any longer, "the day he and mother died, I saw it all."

Jon's head snapped up at her, eyes growing wide, "Arya..." He took a step toward her before stopping on his track as if pulled back by an invisible string.

"I thought I had nowhere to go, I thought about going to you, to the Wall.. but then..."

Jon's gaze was cautious and worried when he asked her then: "What happened to you, Arya?"

"I trained with the faceless men," she said.

"I know," he answered, his tender eyes still peering at her, "it doesn't tell me what happened to you."

Arya did not quite know how to respond to that, nobody had ever truly asked before, and if they had, she might as well have not answered, so she said nothing for a while. She watched as Ghost took silent steps toward Jon and sat at his side, he was almost as tall as him now.

"I got stabbed in the guts," Arya confided finally, voice awkward.

"Funny," he answered in a slight smile, "because I was stabbed in the heart."

And just like that, they had both started to laugh, hysterically, as if they were drunk, as if they were mad men, perhaps they were.

–

Diners had always been dull affairs to Arya, she had never had any of those mundane skills Sansa excelled so much at. The later had been the perfect hostess, swinging from one guest to another, the dim lights of the torches reflecting in her red hair; she took the time to sit with everybody, making small talks without ever letting her guard down, and for the space of one instant, they could all ignore the snow storm that was raging outside, refusing to let them forget that the Long Night was truly upon them with the army of the dead marching at its back. Sansa had been able to keep everything running so smoothly against all odds that nobody hardly ever noticed the effort it took her, but Arya had, and she had a new found admiration for her sister, she truly was the Lady of Winterfell. She was wearing this title like the crown she had always been meant to wear.

Daenerys Targaryen excused herself early that day, "The Queen is feeling unwell," Missandei of Naath had said, looking apologetic on the behalf of her queen as she helped her up, "It's probably the cold, we are not used to it in Essos". Daenerys had hardly eaten, the silver plate sitting in front of her appearing to have been left untouched, and when Arya looked up at her, she had looked strangely small under all the layers of furs she was wearing. It was curious, she had never seemed small before; what the Queen lacked in height she made up with aura. It was hard not to notice her when she was around, and the more she got to talk to her, the more Arya found it easy to like her. She looked and acted too much like the heroes of her childhood, the ones she had felt such a deep bond toward, the ones that had taught her that she could be something other than a proper lady - she could be a queen riding dragons into battles, she could be a warrior, she could be a conqueror - it was as if she had spurned out of Old Nan's tales.

"There is no need," the Dragon Queen said as people motioned to get up in respect as she passed, "thank you again for your hospitality Lady Sansa," she added looking at her, deliberately ignoring Jon sitting directly to her right.

Sansa gave her a polite nod, "Rest well, your grace."

Jon's intense burning stare was fixated to her back as it followed her out of the room, concern etched on his features and longing looming in the depth of his eyes, Arya fought the urge to scream at him to get up and go after her, to stop being such a fucking idiot; if it had not been so unwise, she might have done so, she thought.

Everybody returned to their meals after that, and therefore so had Arya, it was a while later, when she had been starting to feel the dull sway of ale resting heavy on her eyelids, that two recently hired guards had hurried through the door, out of breath and restless, "Your Grace, at the gates! He says you know him!"

"Who?" the king had asked.

"A man, red head and red beard, your Grace."

At that, Jon had jumped on his feet at once, as if struck by a lightning bolt, "I'm afraid we have to call off diner early," he addressed the room then, before hastily motioning for the door.

Half a dozen of his people had followed on his heels and Arya went after them, Ghost shadowing her as silent as a falling autumn leave. Outside, the cold wind eat at her skin and she had to narrow her eyes in order to see through the snow; she rested her hand on the pommel of Needle, focusing on her acutely trained hearing, she was ready to strike at any moment. She didn't know what was awaiting her brother at the gates.

"Jon Snow," a deep strangled voice had said the name as they arrived, the man sounded in pain. He was tall, hair kissed by fire, wearing what appeared to be Wildlings garbs, a tourniquet made out of a brown leather belt compressed his left tight, and when Jon reached him, he fell head first in his arms.

"Tormund?" Her brother's voice trembled as he knelt in the snow, the man holding onto his armour like a child would a father.

"Jon," he said again breathing painful.

"Have Sam fetched!" Jon yelled at the guards never looking away from the man, "Tormund," he said again voice heavy with emotion, "we thought you were dead at East Watch, Bran said..."

"I'm a hard son of a bitch to kill, Jon Snow," the redhead answered, his open lip bloodying his mouth, "What about the kid, Jon, the kid..."

It is only then that Arya noticed the lump form that laid unmoving a few inch away behind them. She came closer slowly, feeling an odd pull, approaching like a wolf would approach a pray, and when she saw his face, she fell to her knee, "Gendry?" The weak voice that had come out of her mouth sounded foreign to her own ear; the image of Nymeria, standing tall surrounded by her pack, flashed into her mind as she felt her heart beating painfully in her throat.

"You know him?" Jon's voice had arisen next to her ear, but she didn't listen, too busy scrutinising the white face that lay unconscious in the snow, he looked like a cadaver.

"Jon," the man called Tormund insisted, "the Others took Last Hearth, it was over-run when we arrived, Beric stayed behind, I don't know if..."

A fearful murmur followed the revelation, 'weren't they supposed to still have time?', it hummed against the wind.

"But Jon, it's not all," the redhead coughed painfully. "The fuckers have a dragon."

–

He was unconscious, hypothermia making his face look grey. He looked like a boy of summer laid in the white sheets and covered in heavy furs, his head buried in a feathered pillow: Gendry was unconscious but not yet dead.

If he died she'd add him to her list, Arya decided uncaring for logic at this very moment, she had just found him again, her long lost friend, he couldn't die before she could tell him how ridiculous this new hairdo of his looked, it wouldn't be fair to either of them.

"How can they have a dragon?" Davos' voice resounded in the neighbouring room, "I thought you said they didn't... couldn't swim, and that Viserion fell at the bottom of a lake?"

"I don't know, but we couldn't burn his body." Jon's voice replied, "Sansa took Bran to the Godswood, he will go look."

"How come he didn't see it in the first place. How come he didn't see about Last Hearth."

"I don't know", Jon's voice sounded lost and guilty, "I don't know Davos, but we don't have time to commiserate, we need to focus on Karhold or they'll be marching on Winterfell before we are ready. I need you to go fetch Jaime Lannister for me, please."

"Aye, your Grace, at once."

As Davos' footsteps began fading in the distance, Jon entered the room, his thick fur cape floating behind him. He was silent for a moment, taking a seat in front her, she shot him a quick glance, unsure of what to say.

"We travelled together for a while, after King's Landing, I wanted him to be my family when I thought I had none left," she finally explained.

She saw as Jon's sad eyes wandered from her to him and back at her again, "I'm sorry," he said after what had felt like too long of a pause.

"What about?" It seemed to Arya that he had a lot to apologise for those days.

He did not reply.

"What's the deal with you and the Queen, anyway?" She asked then, unable to bear the tense silence any longer and too tired and worried to keep pretending that she hadn't noticed.

"I love her."

His sincerity took her aback, and so she turned toward him, looking at him directly in the eyes.

"I love her," he repeated, holding her gaze, "but I can't... not anymore."

"Why not?" Arya asked then. "Why can't you?"

"I'm a Targaryen, and so is she."

Arya frowned, peering at him searchingly, scrutinising his face, "You are not her brother," she pointed out.

He threw his head backward, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling, "What is it that Old Nan used to say about Targaryens taking each other as husband and wife? 'The gods throw a coin...'"

She considered him carefully, tilting her head to the side, "You're wrong, you know."

"About what?"

"You might be a Targaryen by name, but you are a Stark first, you've always been a Stark"

No answer came to that, and so, too frustrated to keep silent any longer, she got up from her chair and continued, deliberately walking toward him: "You are the reason I came back. The memory of you, it brought me back. You asked me what happened to me in Braavos? Without you, I'd have become a girl with no name, without you, I would have been lost, nothing would have been left of Arya Stark of Winterfell, she'd have become but a distant memory ready to fade away. I was ready to let her go, I would have, but I did not get rid of it," she said, giving Needle, ever hanging at her hip, a prod of her hand. "It was the only thing that I kept, the only thing I couldn't..." Her voice broke and so she stopped talking, taking a deep breath and trying to hold back the emotions that threatened to spill. She hated to be weak; weak people suffered and then they died.

She looked at his face, an ocean of feelings had painted pictures on it as he had listened to her speak. Ghost, who until then had been laid on the ground at the foot of the bed, his enormous form taking so much space he looked like a floor rug, had gotten up and settled his head on Jon's lap, the latter's hand now absently stroking the white fur above his ear.

"You are not Daenerys Targaryen's brother, Jon," she said again after collecting herself, "but you are mine."

And with that, she had extended her hand to him.

He watched her for a few painful seconds, his face suddenly void of emotion, dark curls escaping from the pins holding his hair back, until suddenly a fire caught behind his eyes and he grabbed her arm as if it had been a life-line. He pulled her toward him, almost harsh, and squeezed her so tight, she could barely breathe.

"I missed you little sister," he whispered against her hair.

It felt like going home.

They could have been standing there for ten minutes, or perhaps ten hours, when Sansa knocked at the door, entering without waiting to be invited in. She was pushing Bran's wheelchair in front of her and glanced quickly at Gendry's unconscious body still laid on the bed before closing the door behind her.

"So," Jon asked Bran expectantly, tearing himself from Arya, face contorted in worry "is it Viserion?"

For the first time since she had seen him again after all those years, Arya could have sworn that she saw her little brother emote; he was afraid: "Yes. It is."

Jon held a breath in, burning hot rage plastering over his face, "And what of Last Hearth, the Umbers, the men?" Jon enquired again, keeping his tone even, very much a king in that moment.

"Gone," was Bran's only answer to that.

"Fuck," Jon let out under his breath.

He had gotten up now, pacing around in the room, Ghost following his every step, "How come you didn't see?"

"I cannot be sure," Bran replied, his voice was calm but his face - eyes widened, lips quivering slightly - was betraying his fright, "perhaps it is simply because I didn't properly look, I'm still untrained and I'm still processing, or perhaps..."

"Perhaps?"

"Perhaps it is something the Night King did."

Jon did not answer, returning to his pacing instead, on and back again he was, his eyes were darting erratically all around the room, as if he was hoping to find answers in the scenery.

"Somebody needs to tell the Queen about the dragon," Arya pointed out, "she doesn't know yet, does she?"

Sansa let out a resigned sigh, "I'll do it."

But Jon had stopped on his track, and throwing a sharp look at the closed door he had interjected, voice quiet: "No... I will."

* * *

 _AN: I took a small liberty about what Bran has actually seen at the end of the season versus what was just a show transition, mostly because, first I don't want to write myself in a corner timeline wise and second, I find it more interesting if the NK can still surprise them._

 _Thank you a lot for all the feedback you gave me, truly, good or otherwise, everything is much appreciated, especially when it's all constructive._


	5. Daenerys

**5- Daenerys**

–

 _Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor._ A dragon is not a slave.

Days had grown shorter, and Daenerys could not tell how late it was as she lay awake, shifting slightly under her heavy furs, trying and failing in finding more warmth. She longed for simpler times, aboard a ship to White Harbor, feeling Jon's strong arms enveloping her in his heat after a night of lovemaking. She was never cold back then, she never used to be even before that; she was the mother of dragons, fire made flesh, but now cold was all she felt, and neither the warm walls of Winterfell nor the flames crackling in the stone chimney in front of her bed, had been able to fix it.

She could not sleep; each time she closed her eyes she only saw Viserion, a waken nightmare dancing under her eyelids. Her dear sweet child, the one who used to nest himself against her belly when he was small, the one who used to follow her every steps too shy to venture on his own, the one who had tried to keep perching atop of her even after he had grown too big, now a corpse enslaved at the service of a king made of ice. Nothing had ever felt more wrong. She could only picture him; blue-eyed, decaying white wings and rotting flesh, his dark bared bones glistering under the moonlight. _Zaldrïzes buzdari iksos daor_ , a dragon is not a slave.

Jon had been the one to tell her, their first real conversation since they had arrived in Winterfell and she had flown after him and Rhaegal, atop Drogon's back, in order to pull him back before he fell. She had watched him enter her room, his usual heavy fur cape resting on his stiffened shoulder, the tension was thick in the air and there was no mistaking the hunger and need that she had immediately felt building in the pit of her belly; it was the first time they had been alone together since that day. But she had had no time to dwell on it further as he had started to talk, voice heavy with guilt; he first told her about Last Hearth, it was all gone he had said, Bran failed to see. He had looked at her fixedly, eyes pained and loving, standing rigid a few feet away from her as if he had not trusted himself to come closer. And she had asked, trying to keep the panic away from her voice and putting the Queen's mask on, "What of my men, what of them". Dothrakis had been sent there, her fierce and brave bloodriders, now slaves to White Walkers. The Breaker of Chains people called her, she might as well have put those shackles on.

"But that is not all, your grace" Jon had said after that, voice worried and hesitating, black locks falling on his tender gaze, "Viserion has been risen by the Night King, he took down the Wall."

And her world had come crashing down once more; her vision had darken as a strong vertigo overtook her, the sick feeling that she had been carrying at the bottom of her stomach all day long had come back full force, she felt herself waver, her lips quivering and tears pooling in her eyes. It could not be.

She wasn't sure what had happened next, how she had ended up in Jon's arms as he held her tight against his chest, one of his hand around her back pulling her close, the other digging in her silver hair.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, chin resting at the top of her head, "I'm so sorry."

She held on to him as if he had been air and she had been drowning, burying her face at the crook of his neck, his warmth and his scent overwhelming her.

"If I could take it back...," his hand was stroking her hair gently, "I should have known," he added, and she could have sworn that she heard a hint of anger in his voice.

She looked up at him, his face was remorseful, and his grey eyes, pregnant with cold determination, were gleaming with tears that did not fall. She missed him so much in that moment, it felt as if yet another weight had been added atop of her, leaving her crushed underneath it all, this foolish Northman who had barged into her life with a mission and had left with her heart, this stubborn king who had turned out to be her blood. She didn't think when she forcefully grabbed his face in between the palms of her hands, staring up at him with abandon; she watched as the dark steel of his glance, melting under a fire of longing, fell on her mouth, and she stood on her toes, capturing his lips with hers. For a few blissful seconds, he kissed her back, tongue hungrily slipping in between her teeth and hand pulling her head closer, she moaned into his mouth as a fire lit in between her legs.

But then, he pushed her back.

He had caught her wrist gently, drawing her hands away from his jaws before backing off from her at once, "I can't."

And unable to handle his rejection, she had turned her back at him, hands covering her face, inhaling sharply against her palms as she tried to steady her breathing, "Leave," she said.

"Dany..." he pleaded softly, as a hand came to rest on her shoulder, burning her skin where she had been touched.

She had jerked herself away, and kept her back at him, "I'm commanding you to leave, my Lord," she insisted this time stronger, spine and head straightening. Just a few seconds before, she had been a woman in his arms, she was now a queen again.

She had felt him hesitate behind her, shifting his weight on one foot and the other, until finally she heard him motion for the door, "I truly am sorry," he said before leaving, as she fought the urge to ask him what about, "I wish I could..."

'Stay,' she had thought as she heard the door close behind him.

It had been cold once more and Daenerys fell apart.

–

It had been Viserys' dream before it was hers; going home, taking back the throne that was rightfully theirs, sit on a chair made of iron melted by the fiery breath of Balerion the Dread. Viserys had wanted a golden crown, he had wanted to be a king as loved and admired as Rhaegar had been before him, a Targaryen conqueror with a sister-wife at his side for a queen. She'd have given him children with purple eyes and silver hair and the realm would have sung his song for years to come. He had wanted to be Aegon reborn, the dragon awaken, but he was stupid and he was weak, and so he died.

 _Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name_ , did not look like one.

She had never known Rhaegar, she'd never know what his face looked like, nor the sound of his voice, or the way his mouth quirked into a smile as he laughed, she had dreamed of him, of course, but she could never be sure. Was there some of him in Jon's features? Perhaps the line of his nose, or the rise of his cheekbones, the way his lips moved as he spoke, or the way his eyes softened when looking upon those he loved? She had grown up hearing stories about Rhaegar, how the people loved him and wanted him as their king, how he was fair and just, how he was brave, how he was strong and caring and nothing like her father. Rhaegar had always had a flair for destiny and a sense of his own doom, she had been told, as if he had had always known.

Jon was Stark-haired and Stark-eyed, he did not look like a Targaryen, and yet she wondered if any part of her brother had survived in him; in a man who took a knife to the heart and had risen back from it with a crown thrust upon his head, a crown that he bore like an ill-fated mission. "Rhaegar never liked killing," Ser Barristan's voice echoed in her mind, but her brother had not been perfect, casting aside duty, wife and children alike, all for the sake of a woman's love, plunging the realm in turmoil and leaving only a son behind in legacy.

"You know what's strange?" she asked Tyrion suddenly.

They were sitting in her chambers, drinking together in silence, rekindling a habit that they had picked up in Meereen.

"No." Tyrion answered, turning back his attention toward her, he had been pensively staring through the window until now, watching the snow fall on the rampart of Winterfell.

"He came to Dragonstone to ask me to allow him to mine dragonglass, but it was his for the taking all along."

Tyrion's gaze fixated itself on her, considering her seriously: "Is that so?"

"My brother was the Prince of Dragonstone," she replied, turning her focus to the outside, the outlines of Drogon's dark shadow could be seen circling the fortress from afar, "the title passed down to his heir after he died."

"A curious way to look at it," Tyrion said then, taking a sip of wine.

"Is that so?" Daenerys returned to him then, unsure of what he meant.

He cleared his throat, looking away from her, "From where I stand, Robert Baratheon took the Seven Kingdoms by right of conquest, just as Aegon and his wives did before him, and just as you are doing now, any hold you claim is yours."

She narrowed her eyes at him, putting her hot infusion back down on the table, "Robert Baratheon was an usurper."

"Usurpers... conquerors... they're not much different in the end."

"What are you implying, my Lord?" Daenerys asked, peering at him, afraid to understand.

Tyrion shrugged, "Rest assured, my Queen, I'm sure Maesters' history books will not remember Robert Baratheon kindly; they call conquerors only those who leave a legacy in their wakes."

She glared at him, "As I have told you before, Lord Tyrion, we will discuss the matter of succession once I wear the crown."

He had exhaled impatiently, looking up at her, "Your grace, I must insist..."

But she did not leave him any time to talk himself around the issue, her burning cold eyes piercing through him, "I will not change my mind, do not make me repeat myself again."

He had backed away in his seat, glance lowering, downing the rest of his cup at once, and a charged silence fell upon them.

It was only a few minutes later that he spoke again, tone slightly hesitant: "I still think that it was a mistake for Jon Snow to leave for Karhold without first bending the knee before his lords."

Daenerys held a sigh in, "And leave us with the aftermath of it? That is not much of a solution, I'm afraid." she pointed out, matter-of-factly.

Her Hand breathed heavily, "Sometimes, there is no right solution, your Grace. Only bad ones and then worse ones," he reached to pour himself more wine before continuing, "My time as a drunken dwarf on my way to Essos taught me as much. How long until my sister figures out what's going on and uses it to her advantage, how long until the Lords find out? It would have been best if they had first heard it from him, now if he dies..."

"He will not die," Daenerys asserted, voice strong.

But Tyrion did not back down this time, "He might, he has before, he is not invincible, just as you are not, none of us are." He tilted his head to the side, his eyes searching her face intently, "I wonder my Queen, if perhaps, you do not want him to kneel any longer?"

She considered his words carefully; it had been Viserys' dream before it was hers, a seed that he had planted in her head and that had grown into a tree, it had been his dream before it had become hers, but when she had started to dream it, she had done so differently. He had dreamt of a golden crown and of a song to his glory, she only dreamed of dragonfire burning a wheel that she had left broken in her wake.

"My Queen?" Tyrion insisted, eyes quizzical.

She did not reply, dismissing him with a gesture of her hand.

She looked toward the white sky again, shuddering under the bitter cold, Drogon had disappeared into the horizon, she felt alone.

–

Jon had left a couple of days before; it had started with a meeting of their joined Small Councils, a note in his hand, and his siblings at his side, dark eyes warily sweeping the room they had all stood in, "A raven from Theon Greyjoy," he had explained, "he is sailing back to White Harbor with his sister as we speak, the Golden Company is already well on its way to Westeros."

A dreaded murmur had followed the revelation.

"We can't afford a two fronts war so soon," Davos had pointed out, expressing everyone's fear.

"No," Jon answered looking back down at the squirl, "this is why Jaime Lannister will be riding for Karhold tomorrow as soon as the sun rises, he will meet me there with his men, we can not lose it the same way we lost Last Hearth."

"To meet you there?" Sansa Stark's voice had arisen, "what do you mean, to meet you there?"

"I am going," he answered, "they need more dragonglass weapons."

Daenerys' mind had flashed to the day around the painted table of Dragonstone, when he had decided to leave for Eastwatch, a day he had almost never came back from.

"You can't go there," Davos interjected much in the same way he had the first time, frightened impatience heavy on his words, "you are the King."

Jon had looked back at him, a contrite expression on his face, "I have to go, they need to be armed or they will lose, I need to bring them those weapons in the first hours of the morning."

"Are you planing to float yourself there?" Tyrion had pointedly questioned then, voice filled with sarcasm. "Don't be absurd, you can't arrive there so soon anyway, and especially not while travelling in that shit weather."

His dark eyes had turned toward her, an apologetic expression painted on his features, 'I'm sorry' his eyes screamed at her, 'I'm so sorry.' Comprehension dawned upon her as panic overtook her, making her blood run cold: He was indeed flying there. With her child.

"Leave us," she had told the others, holding his gaze, keeping her anger away from her voice.

And so they had, not daring to disobey.

"You are not taking my child there, you are not taking my child to be murdered by the Night King, Jon Snow."

He had taken a step toward her, slow and deliberate, his stare burning at her. It was the first time they had talked alone since she had kissed him a couple of nights ago, the first time since then that he had looked at her so completely and so directly that she had felt herself melt under his gaze. She had been watching him of course, sparing with his sister Arya or overseeing battle plans with his lords, but he had not watched back, until now that was.

"I have to."

"No," she said again firmly, "you are not taking Rhaegal there."

He took another slow step, as if he had been approaching a small animal, "I have to," he repeated softly as he reached her. She had inhaled sharply, taking in his scent, suddenly too aware of his heat as he lifted a hand to cup her chin, sending a jolt down her spine, "Dany... I have to."

The nickname had sounded sweet in his voice, and she had lowered her gaze, staring at her interlocked fingers. She felt tears burning her eyelids and a sick feeling making her stomach lurch, she had been unwell for days now.

"What kind of a lord am I if I am not ready to fight for my people?" Jon had said, voice kind, throwing her words back at her.

She knew he was right, had known from the moment she had understood, it didn't make it any easier.

"I will not let anything happen to him, you have my word," he promised her then.

And she had nodded weakly, focusing on her breathing, she could not allow herself to cry, "I will come then, we will do it together, as we said we would."

"We need a dragon in Winterfell," Jon replied, "this, this is how we fight together."

She had not answered.

–

 _Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor._ A dragon is not a slave.

Days had grown shorter and Daenerys could not find sleep.

She sat up on her bed, adjusting furs around her shoulders as her locks of silver hair cascaded freely down her back, she stared into the crackling fire, orange flame dancing in the stone chimney making her chamber glow red, she wanted to feel warm. She got up and came closer, the smell of burning wood invading her senses; Viserion was dead and enslaved, some of her bloodriders had gone with him. She needed to feel warm, would she need to jump in the fire to finally feel a heat? Jon was leaving the next day, flying away on Rhaegal, she might never see them again.

She made the decision impulsively, walking bare footed toward her door, and slipping out of her chambers in silence.

"Khaleesi!" Jorah Mormont called after her.

It had been decided, almost as soon as they had arrived in Winterfell, that she was to be shadowed by a guard at all time, the idea of having one of her bloodriders do the job had been shut down immediately, "Northmen need to be able to see you as something other than a foreigner, your grace," Tyrion had pointed out, it was an astute advice.

And so the duty had fallen upon Jorah, a traitor and an exiled, but a Northerner nonetheless, "Let me escort you," he added, his face but a gloomy shadow against the night.

She had shot him down with a glance, he could not follow her where she went.

She arrived by his quarters quickly, inhaling sharp, anticipated need already building inside of her lower belly, nobody had dared to stop her on her way. She stood in front of his door, immobile and hesitant for a few seconds, crooked fingers suspended a centimetre away from the dark wood that held him inside, he was leaving the next day... she had to feel warm.

And so she knocked.

It took a minute for the door to open on Jon, wild curls framing his face, "Daenerys?" his voice was soft and questioning.

She stepped inside without waiting to be invited in, and he closed off the rest of the world behind them.

Longclaw was resting by his desk, his Stark armour lay next to it, its direwolf sigil glimmering under the crescent moon that was piercing through the window, the night was clear. He was ready to leave in the morrow already. She turned back toward him, watching him as he stood by the door awkwardly, looking at her up and down as if she had just escaped from his dreams, his dilated pupils hungrily taking her in.

"I want to feel warm again," she told him then, voice assured, her eyes glued to his. "I want you to make me feel warm." He did not answer, and so she came closer.

He stepped away, shoulder tensed, backing himself against the wooden door, as if engaged in a strange dance, and she had to suppress a smile: Jon Snow, the man who had faced armies sword in hand and hadn't wavered, the man who had seen a dragon storm toward him and had remained impassive, the man she had witnessed stare down the Night King himself, backing away at the sight of a woman in love.

She advanced toward him, determined to claim him, she needed to feel warm. She took his face in her hands, and angled herself for a kiss, but he lifted his chin up, denying her once more, "I can't," and his voice was so distressed, underneath its false calmness, that she had almost wanted to cry.

"Jon," she told him softly, "what is it that is holding you back." His intense gaze, blasting with need, fell on her, he remained silent, "I know it is not for a lack of care, nor is it for a lack of want," she continued, voice pleading, "tell me my love, what is it that is holding you back when you might die tomorrow, when we might all die tomorrow?"

He closed his eyes, and swallowed with difficulty, one of his his hands came to rest atop of hers, pressing it slightly against his jaw making his beard prickle against the skin of her palm, "When I was with the Free Folk," he finally said, voice sombre, "I was told that it was wrong to lie with a woman from your village."

She contemplated his words, heart beating painfully in her throat, "I am not from your village, Jon Snow."

"Aye, you're not." he conceded, thoughtful.

Daenerys had seen the exact moment he gave in, something dark had flashed behind his eyes, and he had grabbed her face, eager and hungry, crashing his lips on hers. She felt set aflame.

The first time had been raw; the relief of days of frustration, she had backed him to the bed, climbing atop of his knees, straddling him between her legs. They hadn't bothered to do away with most of their clothings, one of his hands slithering up her thighs and finding her damp middle, the other cradling her waist against his chest. His hot breath felt hard and rough against the skin of her neck, sending goosebumps down her spine, she bit her lips as she lowered herself onto him, letting out a quiet hiss, fingers fisted in his hair, he groaned, voice low and animal, as her trembling body started moving in unison with his. It was harsh with urgency, it made her feel alive.

"I do not permit you to die", Daenerys told him when it was over, spent and tired in his arms after she had come undone atop of him, sending him over the edge in turn.

"I will try not to," Jon had answered, hand stroking her hair.

"I could go, and you could stay," she proposed then - he could not die after she had just found him, after she had just found out that she wasn't the last of her kind after all.

He had a tired breath, "You are the Queen, you can't go, your people need you."

But she hadn't heard his answer, falling asleep in his heat.

She had woken up in the depth of the night, to a trail of hot kisses streaming down her neck leaving chills in their path. She had grabbed his hair, pulling his head toward her and kissed him, slow and purposeful in the darkness. Daenerys had unwrapped him like a gift after that, tongue tasting him, peeling the remaining clothes off of each other, and he had crawled on top of her, his naked skin delightfully brushing hers as one of his knee came to push her legs open. One of his palms found hers, pining it over her head, he had locked his darkened grey eyes with hers, deliberate and careful, flicking a strand of her silver hair away from her face. 'I love you', she had wanted to say as her free hand found the harshness of the scar spread over his heart, 'blood of my blood', but too afraid to break the moment she had kept silent, making love with him, long and tender under the moonlight. She felt warm.

She woke up alone the next day, Jon's side only filled with a blue winter flower, Longclaw was no longer resting against the desk, his armour disappeared with it. He was gone. She watched as his white direwolf came to rest his head on the bed next to her hand, his red eyes looking up at her expectantly. Daenerys felt cold once more.

–

She had left dinner early again that night, Jorah helping her up the stairs, holding her elbow delicately, concerned eyes fixated on the side of her face.

She had been unable to eat anything, the mere smell of cooked food making her stomach flounder with nausea, "I apologise again, Lady Sansa," she had told her then, "I cannot seem to rid myself of this illness."

"Do you want me to have the Maester send to your chambers, your Grace?" Sansa had questioned then, considerate, "or pehaps Samwell Tarly?"

"I will be fine, I just need to warm myself up."

Arya Stark had looked up at her, disengaging from the conversation she had been having with young Lyanna Mormont, worried eyes following her out of the room.

"Are you feeling better, your grace?" Missandei asked her later.

"Warmer," she answered her friend in a smile.

They fell in a comfortable silence for a while; Daenerys was now laying in a hot bath, with Missandei drawing water upon her sore body, relaxing her knotted muscles.

"You never did tell me," she asked suddenly, "what those 'many things' were."

Missandei had childish giggle, so unlike her, it almost made Daenerys blush, "I'm afraid this is rather private, your grace."

"Oh, I am sure."

And they had exchanged a knowing smile.

"Are you worried for him?"

"Every day," Missandei responded, Grey Worm had been left at White Harbor, overseeing the defence of this strategic city-hold by the sea, "but he is where he wants to be, he wouldn't be the man I love if he was any different. You would know, as you worry the same."

She could not deny that, Daenerys thought, thinking of Jon, fighting further north with her child.

"Are you and Lord Snow doing any better?"

Daenerys didn't reply, gaze unfocused on the stone wall, because quite frankly, she wasn't entirely sure herself.

"You are not planing to go after him, are you?" Missandei's voice was rushed with concern, eyebrows frowning at her.

"You have been speaking with Tyrion, haven't you?"

"Forgive me your grace, but he is worried about you."

"He enjoys worrying about me," Daenerys said, voice harsher than intended.

Missandei studied her intently, eyes peering at her face, until she finally spoke: "But doesn't he have a good reason to, your grace? When was the last time that you rushed head first to save a man and lost a child for it?"

Her boldness took Daenerys aback, she looked up at her and Missandei held her gaze, knowingly raising her eyebrows at her. The image of her Sun and Stars flashed before her eyes, an empty shell laying catatonic under a tent. Some days, when she closed her eyelids in the darkness, she could still feel the pillow in her hands as she had pressed it against his face, smothering the life out of him, it still showed up in her nightmares from time to time.

"You'd rather take Jon Snow as a husband too than as a lord," Missandei remarked as if she had been reading her mind.

It wasn't a question.

"I cannot marry Jon," Daenerys had responded truthfully after a few seconds of silence, losing her glance on the wall once more.

"Why not, since you love him?"

"He has to father children."

The sadness that had compressed her chest after uttering those words was almost unbearable, and she swallowed back her tears, forcing herself to keep her face inscrutable.

"But still," Missandei pointed out, "you do not want him to bend the knee."

Daenerys contemplated those words, playing them over and over again in her mind. Viserys had planted a seed in her brain, and it had grown into a tree, with strong roots and fragile leaves that she had tended to daily. She had had the idea of a broken wheel, more than a golden crown, more than a song to her glory, and people had believed in it, as deeply as she had.

" _Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor,"_ she told Missandei simply.

Her adviser's eyes grew wide, comprehension dawning upon her face, "A dragon is not a slave," she translated in a shocked whisper.

"He is the blood of Old Valyria, and he was elected as their King," Daenerys continued, "the North is his."

That night, she dreamt of a house with a red door, swallowed under a thick layer of snow, a boy with black locks and purple eyes held her hand tight; she had dreamt of home.

* * *

 _AN: This chapter ran far longer than the others did and that most of the remaining ones probably will as well. I originally intended to have even more content in there but moved some of it to the next chapter to manage the length since it didn't necessarily require Dany's POV. Also, not being a native English speaker, I'm utterly unsure of if I should increase the rating or not as I'm not really familiar with those types of ratings._

 _Thank you to everyone again for all the feedback, I really really enjoy reading all the comments!_


	6. Jon (II)

**6- Jon (II)**

–

Strong waves were crashing against the wooden hull of the ship to White Harbor, making it swing slightly under its raged strength, winter had caught up with the sea. Daenerys was lying in his arms, bare and beautiful, her silver hair spread on his chest like a halo framing her face. He watched her as she traced the outline of the still healing gashes scarring his chest, dulling the pain he could still sometimes feel.

"Tell me how it happened," she asked him softly.

He didn't answer for a while, pulling her closer, holding unto her warmth, "It is not a very pleasant story, I'm afraid," he told her then, truthful.

"I guessed," she answered looking up at him, "I still want to hear about it."

He took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts, "Those scars are the constant reminder of my failure."

Her brows knitted at him, considering him intently, "Is that so?"

He could still see Olly's face when he had plunged his knife in his chest, tears bathing his cheeks with salt, 'For the Watch', the words still echoed in his ears like a haunting prayer he'd rather forget.

"The Night's Watch," he said, "they were my brothers, and they killed me."

Daenerys hadn't answered anything to that, studying his face in silence, her glimmering eyes introspective, and so he continued, "I thought I was doing the right thing, allowing the Free Folk south of the Wall, I still think I was doing the right thing, but they felt betrayed and they killed me for it. It was my failure, I failed to make them see... I failed to convince them, and now they're dead."

She had grabbed his face then, thumb stroking his bearded jaw, and diving her purple eyes in his, she had kissed him, long and gentle, causing a fever to rise in the depth of his guts, "But you are here now," she said, "and you were right from the start."

"If that was true," he replied, gaze and tone hardening, "I wouldn't have so much blood on my hands."

"You cannot save everybody," she murmured, "no one can."

"It is not about whom I failed to save," he had said then, guilt washing over him, "My father always told me that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, so I hung them, all of them, one of them was only a boy."

She hadn't replied after that, closing her eyes and pillowing her head against his chest, until she broke the silence, voice thoughtful: "Your father sounds like he was quite a man, the way you talk about him, not quite what I have been told when I was a child."

"He was," Jon replied, "he was the most honourable man I've known."

Daenerys kept silent once more, seemingly listening to the drums of his heart beating against his ribcage, "Do you think less of me, my Queen?" he had asked after a few minutes, afraid of the answer.

"No," she responded, looking up at him with a fire in her eyes, "I think that if your father was anything like you, then I must have been lied to."

And with that she had kissed him, ferocious and harsh, her teeth clinging against his, pulling him into her arms and warping herself around him, "Make love to me again," she whispered in his ear, voice low and sharp, her hot breath making the hair on the nape of his neck stand up in a shiver.

He had been happy to oblige.

–

The day hadn't yet risen on Winterfell when he had opened his eyes to a mess of silver locks and the coarse and bittersweet smell of a night of lovemaking lingering in the atmosphere. She had her back pressed against his chest, fingers tangled with his, her soft curves espousing his frame, she had nested herself against his body in her sleep. He closed his eyes once more, allowing himself one minute to indulge in the comfort of her warmth, he would feel guilty later, he had missed her too much.

Telling the lords about his plan to leave for Karhold hadn't been easy, "The less they see you ride the dragon the better it is," Sansa had pointed out. "They're talking you know, many of them are speculating about your mother..."

"Let them talk," Jon had interrupted her, chasing away the thought of Lyanna Stark from his mind, "They'll find out soon enough anyway."

Thinking of Ned Stark hadn't been easy either, the man he had called his father for so long, laying awake in the night and wondering, asking himself why. Rationally, he knew that it hadn't been to hurt him, he knew that it was something that had needed to be done to keep him safe; but reasoned thinking did little for his anger, he had found, just as it did little for the odd sense of loss that he had been carrying around since that day.

He also doubted that reason would do much for the unneeded turmoil that the truth would inevitably cause among his lords, Sansa didn't need to tell him for him to know; Northmen had no love for southern monarchs, and despite how foreign to his mind the concept sounded, despite how little he wanted to be _Aegon Targaryen_ , heir to any throne, it was how they would all see him. He had went to the Wall wanting to find a purpose once upon a time: learning to bear a bastard name like an armour and reclaiming it as his own, taming the fire that had always burned underneath the guarded mask that he wore. But it wasn't him, he had never been a Snow, just as he had never been a Stark, and Ned had known all along. Ned could have spared him but didn't, and no matter how hard he tried to shake it, Jon couldn't get rid of the feeling of betrayal that lay heavy on his shoulders.

A soft knock on his door took him out of his thoughts, and he tore himself away from Daenerys in silence, careful not to disturb her. She shifted in her sleep without waking, muttering something in a tongue he couldn't understand.

"What is it?" He had asked in a barely audible whisper, as he cracked open his chambers' door - not enough to put his bed in full view.

"Jaime Lannister is ready to leave, your Grace," Davos informed him then, giving him a strange look.

"I'll be a minute."

"Is everything alright?" his advisor asked, eyes narrowing.

"Aye, it is fine, Davos, I need to get dressed." And he had closed the door without waiting for an answer.

His gaze stayed glued on her as he clothed himself, buckling Lonclaw around his waist and securing it in its sheath: she looked beautiful under the shifting morning light, this incredible woman he shouldn't long for but couldn't help wanting anyway. He sighed deeply, he only had a few minutes left to pretend that the outside world didn't exist.

He thought of a boat sailing north, when for the space of similar sleepless nights, he hadn't been a king nor she a queen. They had just been Jon and Dany, two young and foolish people in love, exploring each other's bodies and discovering each other's souls. He had wondered back then if it was what happiness felt like, holding her warmth against him as he told her about his family, recounting the memory of Arya's spirit and of Bran's fearlessness, "You will like them," he had said, "as you will Sansa."

"But will they like me?" She had asked, in such a soft way it had sounded foreign in her voice.

Her nervousness had been so endearing he had laughed into her shoulder, "If they don't I will make them," he had joked then, moving on top of her.

"Just as you will make your lords accept me?" she asked, raising her eyebrows in challenge and tangling her fingers in his hair.

"Exactly," he had answered, "they chose me as their king and I chose a queen to rule."

"Be careful Jon Snow," she had grinned at him, "You are turning into quite the tyrant."

He had laughed, loud and carefree, and she had pressed sloppy kisses on his vibrating neck, biting the skin slightly, leaving teeth marks behind. He didn't remember the last time he had done something just for himself until her, until he had knocked on her door with his heart in his throat and lust building in his groin. He had surprised himself dreaming of better days back then, spilling himself inside of her, picturing her as his wife and watching her belly grow round with child. He could have everything.

But the gods had never been kind, not from his birth or after that, and reality had caught up with him once more, leaving the dreams to die at sea.

"I'm afraid I haven't been a very good king as of late," he told Davos later as they were standing outside of Winterfell, eyes turned toward the white sky, awaiting Rhaegal.

"Nonsense," the older man answered, "you've had a lot on your plate."

Jon breathed heavy and rubbed his eyes, nobody could afford to have a lot on their plates those days, least of all him. He watched as the scales of his dragon pierced through the clouds like a green meteor, landing a few feet away with a loud thud, Davos jumped backward as the beast extended its long neck toward Jon, questioning eyes fixated on him.

"I need you to fly me to Karhold, boy," Jon requested in a whisper, his gloved hand resting on his snout, "At the very least, I have been a very poor brother," he added after that, turning to face his advisor again.

Davos tore his eyes away from Rhaegal to peer at him, "You have known better days," he conceded.

Jon didn't reply, wordlessly working on securing wooden crates filled with dragonglass on Rhaegal's back, Davos' scrutinizing glance never leaving him, until the latter broke the silence, calling after him: "Is Jaime Lannister right, your Grace? Are you using yourself as bait to lure the Night King and allow him and his men to attack from behind?"

"Perhaps," Jon answered non-committally.

"Perhaps not, I hope, you will get yourself killed," Davos said, with the worried voice of a father.

"I don't get myself killed," Jon joked then, trying to alleviate the tension that had immediately started to build in between them, "You know me."

He had rolled his eyes at that, "Aye, I do. And this is what I'm weary of, it's supposed to be my job to talk you out of doing idiotic things like this. I doubt there is any surprising the Others."

Jon hadn't replied, thinking of Daenerys currently sleeping in his bed, Karhold needed to be armed, regardless of danger, regardless of battle plans, and there was only two people who could bring them the weapons as quickly as needed, if one of them had to be sacrificed, he'd rather it was him. The Night King wouldn't resist the call of a dragon, of that he was sure, so he might as well use it to his advantage. He had to try.

He climbed on Rhaegal's wing and settled on his back, hands grabbing his spine. "Jon," Davos called after him once more, "come back alive, you are the least expendable person here."

He gave him a sad smile, thoroughly unconvinced, and didn't answer, taking flight once more.

–

They hit the ground.

The spear had caught Rhaegal in the wing and impaled itself on his flank, pinning it against his side, and Jon could have sworn that he had felt the blow against his own ribs, taking his breath away. He held on with all of his might as Rhaegal screamed and fell in a crazed spiral, his free wing battling widely in a failed attempt to regain flight. His heart was beating roughly in his chest, as if trying to escape the prison of his bones, he thought of Winterfell, of Arya, Bran and Sansa, would they make it after he died, had he taken out enough of them? He thought of Daenerys, warm and soft under him, whispering 'I love you' in her ear, he had wasted so much time and now he was failing her. He held on harder, scales cutting the skin of his palm through his gloves, and thought of Ned Stark, lying to him all of his life, raising him as a Stark bastard and sending him to the Wall, only for him to die this way: falling from the sky atop of a speared dragon, like Queen Rhaenys Targaryen had before him. Perhaps there was no escaping fate.

He closed his eyes, Rhaegal was still flapping his free wing, desperate and restless, but it was useless, and so they wrecked on the ground.

The terrifying bang that had followed made the earth shake, and Jon's body had been projected backward, falling harshly against the top of Rhaegal's tail, impaling his shoulder on one of his spikes. Jon clenched his teeth together as a wild growl of pain escaped from his lips, stars dancing in front of his pupils, blood warmed his side and drenched the leather of his armour a dark red, dust obscuring his vision, as the sound of battle cries resounded around him. He was still alive.

He had arrived two days before, just in time to distribute weapons before Karhold had been surrounded by the haunting corps of wights. His people had trembled around him, soldiers and civilians alike, holding unto daggers and swords that they were too untrained to yield. They had looked up to him, trying to find bravery in their king's eyes, and so he had ordered them to fight, condemning them to death.

"This ground is ours, and we will hold it!" Jon had roared the next day as dusk was settling on the horizon, they could not wait out the war any longer. Adrenaline had pumped through his veins, fastening his heartbeat, and he had jumped on Rhaegal, flying over the walking dead men. He had picked out the Great Others in the crowd of rotting flesh, roasting them one by one with dragonfire. For the space of one instant, he had thought that they could win, watching risen bodies fall like leaves around them with each kill, his men claiming the ground back, piercing through the retreating enemy like the sharp head of an arrow.

But then, he had heard the ice spear whistle against the cold air of winter, and he had caught a glimpse of him, theirs eyes briefly locking; the Night King was flying atop of an undead Viserion, intensely staring at them as it hit, making Rhaegal plummet to the ground.

Jon pushed himself up, grimacing painfully as the green spike tore through his flesh, leaving a hole in his armour. Under him, Rhaegal was still screeching and breathing fire at random, his injury rendering him uncontrollable. They were both alive. The wights came closer, ice sword in hands, as blue fire ran upon his men, and Jon didn't think when he had dismounted, drawing out Longclaw, his profusely bleeding shoulder leaving a red trail on the snow, adrenaline was dulling his pain. He swiftly slashed through the first one, and the second and then the third, protecting his dragon's head, he had promised Dany, he had given his word, if this was to be his last stand, then he'd die saving him.

Not everything had to be lost, even after all hope was gone.

"To the King!" a voice tore through the wind.

A horseman was galloping toward him, as fast as a bolt, and suddenly Jon found himself surrounded by red armours, swords drawn, fighting next to him as he put down an undead Dothraki. Jaime Lannister had arrived, and dismounting his horse at once, he recklessly grabbed the ice spear still lodged on Rhaegal's side, pulling with all of his strength.

"Come on, son of a whore!" he swore loudly.

It had spurn Jon into action, pulling behind Jaime, until little by little, it yanked away under their combined effort, setting Rhaegal free. The dragon spread his wings then but didn't flee, motioning to shield his rider instead, "Fall back!" Jon had yelled to the men, "Everyone, fall back!"

Everything had happened in a mess of confusion after that, bodies smashing into each other as they fought their way back to the fortress, a young Lannister soldier tripped in front of Jon, falling face first on the ground, he had grabbed the back of his armour without thinking, propelling him back up on his feet, "Fall back!" he yelled once more.

They were back inside, heavy wooden gates enclosing them into relative safety, a drop of blood ran on his face and Jon had looked up: Rhaegal was circling overhead, Viserion nowhere to be seen any longer.

"Your Grace," a young Northman said, "the Others are retreating."

Jon looked around him, face blank, eyes unfocused, perhaps half a thousand of them had made it alive, "We won," the boy added.

He let Longclaw fall on the ground with a loud clung, blood dripping from his side and pooling at his feet, he had failed. 'The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword', he thought briefly, and then his vision darkened as he collapsed on the ground.

–

The smell of spring was invading his nostrils, flowers growing wildly around a burgeoning tree, a white bird was perched atop of a heavy branch next to a blue flower, whistling a soothing song at him. He looked around and smiled, as his eyes caught Robb's frame; his brother was nine, or perhaps ten, yielding a wooden sword, play-fighting with a girl with long silver hair.

"You have to pick a side Jon," Robb yelled at him then, shooting him a mischievous glance.

"Yes, pick a side Jon!" Daenerys had concurred.

But he stood there, suddenly unable to move, as if his feet had been pinned to the ground by an invisible force. He had been helpless as the landscape had suddenly turned into winter, snow catching in Robb and Dany's hair, "Pick a side, Jon," they said in unison, "Or it won't ever go away."

He had closed his eyes, willing himself to move but unable to budge, and when he had opened them again they were both gone, replaced by the Night King holding a small babe with dark hair in his arms, "What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms?" the King said in a strange frightening voice.

Jon drew Longclaw and plunged toward him, raising his sword to strike, but then Ned Stark had been standing there instead, looking down at him sadly. Jon had gaped at him, staring hungrily, a multitude of questions hustling through his brain, 'why', 'how', 'why did you lie to me', 'why'.

Ned smiled at him wistfully before putting an arm around his shoulders and looking to his left, Jon followed his gaze and saw as Gendry was now holding the babe, a knife pressed on its small throat, "The choice was already made when I held it," his father finally spoke.

The boy turned into Ghost and then Rhaegal, in a constant back and forth, Gendry disappearing into a haze, and Jon watched, as if hypnotised by this curious dance, unable to process any of it. Another body came at the other side of him, and he turned to look at him, his eyes meeting Theon Greyjoy's melancholic face.

He opened his mouth to speak but Jon would never hear any of it, waking up with a start.

A small hand came to rest atop of his, as light as a butterfly, and Jon batted his eyelids, trying to chase away the blur from his eyes.

"He is waking up!" Her voice was strong and commanding, "Go fetch the Maester."

"Dany?" he asked, as his eyes finally focused on her face, making his heart fluster.

Wild silver locks were escaping the braids that were usually holding her hair back, her violet eyes looking glassy, as if she had either wept too much or not enough, she smiled at him softly, relief visibly etching on her features.

"Jon," she whispered at him, squeezing his fingers in her palm, "we have to stop doing that."

His mind flashed back to the first time he had woken up to her tears, crying Viserion after she had lost him beyond the Wall, "What are you doing here, I..." He sat up on the bed quickly, making his head spin, suddenly remembering what had just went down, a thick bandage was tying his right arm against his chest, severely restricting his movements.

"You need to rest," she said with a small smile, as her free hand came to stroke his face.

"I'm sorry Dany," he told her then, throwing her a searching glance, "I lost... we lost... and Rhaegal is..."

She cut him off at that, a strange smile playing on her lips: "Rhaegal is still alive and so are you. You didn't lose, we are still holding Karhold."

'But at what cost', Jon thought, 'so much death, and so little gain'. He rested himself back down, hissing at the jolt of pain that had pierced through his shoulder-bone, "What are you doing here?" he asked again. "What of Winterfell?"

"According to Bran, Winterfell will be fine for now," Daenerys said, "I will fly us back there in the next few hours."

He frowned at her in worry, "It still doesn't tell me what you are doing here."

She looked away, still holding his hand, "I came as soon as I heard," she explained, "Bran saw you and Rhaegal fall from the sky, it was already over when I arrived, I burned all the bodies with Drogon."

Jon considered her carefully, examining her face, there was something strange glimmering in her eyes, amidst the horror and the worry, something that looked like hope, "Dany," he said again, in a soft voice, "you shouldn't have come."

She looked back at him, a fire lighting in her pupils "Jon," she said again even softer, as if she was sharing the most important secret, "I had to, I could never let you die, not for anything."

One of her hands came to rest atop of her stomach, fingers caressing the fur of her dress, "And even less so now, for I am carrying your child."

His jaw dropped, words catching in his breath, unable to utter a single sound. Once upon a time he had left for the Wall in the hope of finding his purpose, reclaiming a bastard name that he had never owned and rising back from his death with an unwanted crown, but in that moment, as he looked into the eyes of the woman he shouldn't love and yet did, telling him that she was carrying a life that they had created, he could not regret any of it, for it had led him here.

Ned's face appeared in his mind as a dry sob strangled in his throat. She had smiled at him big and fiery, and for a fleeting second, he could see nothing in her but happiness. He squeezed back her hand and pulled her toward him, drowning himself in her scent, if life could grow when they were fighting death, there might yet still be hope.

* * *

AN: This chapter was a bit of a labour to write, mostly because it was my first try at a battle scene and I didn't want to shy away from this part of the story, preferring to show it rather than just have characters speak about it, I hope I didn't do too badly. Also, since I am back to school, It is going to be pretty hard to write more than a chapter a week, so this rhythm of publishing should be expected from now on.

Thank you a lot again for all the nice comments and feedback, I will try to answer some of those when I have time, it is always a joy to read everybody, truly.


	7. Davos

**7- Davos**

–

"He will come back, you know, it has not even been a day."

Arya Stark was standing atop the walls of Winterfell, her watchful gaze lost in the distance, one of her hands rested on the thin blade ever hanging at her hip. She hadn't reacted when he had spoken, standing as unmoving as a statue, overlooking the snowy tree-covered hills that surrounded the fortress.

Davos came closer, scratching his beard awkwardly as he stood next to her, "He will," he continued, "he always does."

Arya kept silent, never glancing back at him as he handed her a cup of warm wine, "You must be cold my Lady."

She downed it at once, letting out a soft seethe, looking upon the horizon with the focused eyes of a predator, "I'm not a lady."

He suppressed a smile as they fell in a strange silence; the cold wind blowing in his face was tingling at the back of his throat, briefly rendering him breathless. But Arya Stark stood, fierce and vigilant, she was right in that moment, she was no lady: she was like her brother, a watcher on the wall.

"How's Gendry," she asked suddenly.

"The same as he was in the morning," he replied, "he is getting stronger."

"Good."

Davos had found her with him many times since his dramatic arrival a few days back, she had often stood at his bedside in the depth of the night, visiting him when she thought nobody would catch her. She had been there when he had woken up, and had visited him daily since, they did not talk much, but their silence often spoke more than words could ever have said. Arya resembled Jon that way as well, sparse with words but plentiful in actions.

"The king will come back," he insisted once more.

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" Arya asked, and there was no trace of any judgement in her voice, only quite recognition of a shared worry.

He did not reply, losing his gaze in the distance as well.

To say that he was concerned about Jon was an understatement, he had had room for little else ever since they had left Dragonstone, and the current chatters that were rolling in echoes among the lords did not help matter.

"He can ride a dragon," one would say.

"Was his mother of Valyrian decent?" another would wonder.

"Just who is our King?" a third one would ask, voice full of wonderment and wariness in equal parts.

And he would be there to listen, all too aware of the building tension that was meant to explode eventually, helpless to prevent it and unable to protect Jon's secret. He had tried as best as he could to deflect conversations away from their doubts, reminding them of what was a stake, of what they were all here for, but nothing had been easy ever since their return; the North being as stubborn as Stannis had always advertised. He remembered all too well the exchange that had occurred the day that followed their return to Winterfell, with the Dragon Queen and her forces at their backs.

"You are asking us to trust a Targaryen!" Lord Cerwyn had roared, as the matter of Daenerys' presence had come to light, and the clamour of approval that had followed had been frightening - wisely, the Queen had not been present at that time.

"No," Lady Sansa had interjected coolly, "He is asking you to trust him."

"Her father killed your Lord grandfather Rickard Stark as well as his heir!" Cerwyn continued, anger never leaving his voice. "She is the Mad King's daughter!"

"But she didn't kill them, and neither did she kill your king." Sansa argued emphasising the last word, impatience heavy on her voice, "We need her, and we need her men."

"Her men?" Lord Glover had interjected, standing upward, "She's a foreign invader! A Targaryen whore who will attack our lands with hordes of barbarians, she even harbours a northern traitor at her side, she cannot be trusted! Targaryens cannot be trusted!"

Jon cold gaze had prevented any reaction to the outburst this time, as he had turned toward his lord; stone faced and emotions kept within, he had slowly stood up, looking much taller than he actually was in that moment, "Are you questioning my judgement, my Lord?", and his words were calm but there was no mistaking the inflexible righteous fury hidden underneath the surface. 'Tough but fair,' Davos thought briefly, chasing away the memory of Stannis from his mind.

Lord Glover had recoiled in his seat, eyes finding Jon's, "Your Grace, I didn't mean to question you, I'm simply..."

"Didn't you?" Jon had cut him off, his dark guarded stare fixated on him, "I trust her and we need her, it should be enough"

"Your Grace," young Lady Mormont's assertive voice had risen then, catching Jon's attention, "despite Lord Glover's rudeness, I can't help but share some of his concerns. How can we be certain that the Dothrakis won't loot our lands and attack our people?"

Jon's long face had softened as his grey eyes fell on her, "I understand your concern, my Lady, but Queen Daenerys trusts that they won't, and I trust her. In addition, and as a compromise, none of them will reside inside our holds until they have entirely proven themselves trustworthy."

One of her advisors had started to whisper a long stream of words in her ear at that, and her eyes had narrowed, her expression made unreadable.

"It is enough for me then," she had finally said after a few seconds of this quiet exchange, head nodding as if she had suddenly made the decision, and Davos had felt a rush of affection for the little Lady.

"Forgive me, your Majesty," Lord Manderly had intervened for the first time after that, tone polite, "but what other guarantees did the Queen give you?"

"As Sansa said, she could have burned me upon my arrival in Dragonstone but didn't," Jon answered, eyes peering at him, "she later saved me beyond the Wall and lost one of her dragons to the Night King. She committed all of her resources for the North to survive the Long Night after that. She wants him destroyed as much as you do."

He had marked a pause then, dark eyes sweeping over the crowd, falling on Lord Glover, and then on Lord Cerwyn and Davos had watched as the lords lowered their glance, unable to bear the weight of their king's uncompromising stare any longer.

"I chose to trust Queen Daenerys Targaryen and my decision is final, just as I chose to pardon Jorah Mormont, I seem to recall that I gave you the same chance after failing to honour your pledge to House Stark once upon a time."

There was a murmur among the lords after that and Jon had continued, his voice hardening with every word: "I pardon people once, but I will not and cannot pardon twice. We need unity more than we need one or two extra swords."

The implication behind his words had hung heavy in the air and Davos' mind had flashed back to Castle Black, on a day when Longclaw had cut through the neck of Janos Slynt, severing his head from his body for insubordination, spurted blood painting the snow red. 'Tough but fair' he thought again, knowing full well that his King's words were anything but idle. The lords had seemed to agree with him, all of them nodding in respect as Jon had sat back down, features closed off and voice commanding: "When the Queen arrives and the war council begins, you shall address her by her proper titles and with all the respect that is due."

None had dared to protest.

–

'One, two, three, four,' he counted, thumb brushing over his missing fingertips, one for each of them. He looked up at the sky, the clouds were white with snow, and worry was clenching at his chest, as he awaited the return of his king. Once upon a time, he would have died for Stannis Baratheon, followed him to what seemed like the end of the world, leaving his wife behind to serve a king that had so fairly punished and rewarded him in turn, lifting him up from nothing and making him into something. 'One, two, three, four' he recounted, thinking of the sons that he lost to his war.

He had believed in Stannis, even loved the man, stoic and unmovable, a king made of steel who he had thought so just. He couldn't shake the memories of him, nor could he reconcile them with the truth: had Princess Shireen screamed when he burnt her? Had she called for her father and gotten no answer to her pleas? Was this why Stannis had sent him away to the Wall, with a mission that any squire could have a accomplished? He wanted to believe that it was not the case and it had been easy to lie sole blame on the Red Woman, but the certainty that had been cutting through his heart like a dagger did not leave him this luxury, the gash felt deeper every day.

He closed his eyes, and inhaled, 'One, two, three, four', he recounted once more. One for each of them.

Stannis had killed for his people, believing wicked voices whispering poison in his ear, and he had failed. Jon had died for his people, listening to only himself, and perhaps that was why Davos had believed in a king again when he had sworn to himself that he wouldn't, 'Perhaps that was our mistake, believing in kings,' he remembered telling Tormund once. "Jon Snow is not a king," the latter had answered.

Refugees from further north had started to arrive in Winterfell, and Davos watched as Lady Sansa welcomed the children in. It had been an idea of the Queen, to house the small ones inside the warm walls of Winterfell, provided that their parents allowed it so, and once Sansa Stark had agreed, no one had protested. The rest of the civilians had been camped just outside the walls, crammed around large fires that the Free Folk had built, and protected by the Queen's Bloodriders.

"You have my word," the Dragon Queen had assured, "that no harm will come to them, the Dothrakis answer to me and I'll see through it."

It had been enough to quell any of Lady Sansa's worry as a mutual respect had steadily build between the two of them.

"Need a hand, my Lady?" he had asked, coming closer to her as Sansa was overseeing rationing for the day.

"Thank you, Ser Davos," She answered, an elegant smile stretching on her lips, "but I am almost done."

He smiled back at her, blowing in his hands to chase the frost biting at his calloused skin, "It's getting colder every day, soon it will be hard to survive outside, even with the fire."

She sighed, "Tell me something I don't know, Ser Davos."

"This one's the last for now," Sandor Clegane had interrupted them, his harsh voice resounding strongly against the pavement, he was carrying a small girl with sandy hair and noticing Davos' presence, he had asked "News from Jon?"

"Not yet," he answered, "but don't worry too much for the King, that's my job, not yours."

"He ain't my king." the other man protested in a shrug.

Davos had suppressed a grin, the boorish knight sure was good at acting like it then. He had opened his mouth to answer him, but a voice had sharply cut through behind them, tone urgent "My Lady! The Lord, your brother is back from the Godswood and he has news about the King!"

At that they had hastily went inside, leaving the Hound behind and following the guard through the narrow corridors and down to the small council room, scurried thoughts of worry were racing in his head as he wondered what the damn fool he called his king had gotten himself into.

The Queen, ever accompanied by Jorah Mormont and her advisors, was already waiting when they arrived, Ghost towering behind her like a pale shadow. The direwolf had followed her everywhere since Jon had left.

They hadn't needed to wait long for Bran to start speaking, "Jon fell," he said, "I saw him and the dragon fall from the sky, I saw blue fire rain on the ground as well."

His blood had run cold, an invisible hand gripping his stomach, making it lurch as a thick, stunned silence enveloped them all. His eyes wandered from Samwell Tarly, to Sansa, to Arya and stopped on Daenerys, the Queens eyes were wide, standing stiffly next to the wooden table an absent hand resting on her stomach,

"Is he still alive?" Davos asked then, turning back his attention toward Bran.

"For now," the Lord answered.

'One, two, three, four,' he recounted in his head, thinking of Stannis, Shireen and all of those he had lost. He couldn't lose again.

"Very well," the Queen had said then, and she couldn't quite mask her fear behind her controlled voice, "I will go to him then."

Tyrion's eyes had darted back at her at that, growing wider by the second, "No you won't."

"Pardon me, my Lord," she said turning his attention to him, "but are you giving me an order?"

Tyrion had raised up his palms at that, and his voice sounded pleading when he answered: "You cannot go and risk everything for a single man, it wouldn't be wise to..."

The heat that came out of her at his words was almost suffocating, and she had taken a step toward her Hand, making him back away under her furious glance, "Wise? I won't leave him to die, and neither will I leave my child, I can't."

And if Davos hadn't already known that she loved him before that, there would have been no doubt left to have now.

"I told you once," she added her eyes still glued to him, "that I wouldn't do nothing again, and I meant it."

And with that, she had motioned for the door, none of them had dared to stop her.

–

Stannis had taught him how to believe and he was grateful for that, and Stannis had also taught him that there was no virtue in blind devotion. Shireen's smile always shone the brightest among the memories of all of those he had lost, a girl who was good and kind and a girl who died for nothing. Her life had been worth more than the demands of a red god, just as it had been worth more than the foolishness of a king made of steel who had forgotten heart along the way, he was sure of that, but now she was gone and nothing would bring her back.

"'A-e-g'," he remembered her teaching him under the shifting light of a candle, "it sounds like an egg as I told you before, this word is 'Aegon.'"

Her sweet face had looked up at him proudly as she had continued "go on and try, recognise this word in the text."

And so he had, feeling his heart fluster with fatherly affection as she had looked over his shoulder, nodding in encouragement at each of his right answers. She was good and she was kind, and now she was gone.

'One, two, three, four,' he was counting his steps, and he heard the whispers as he closed on Jon's door – the King had requested for his council.

"Did the King almost die?" a guard with red hair and a short trimmed beard was asking in a hushed voice.

"They say the Queen went after him because he fell," a second one replied, voice full of barely contained excitement.

"Perhaps he wasn't meant to ride a Dragon."

"Perhaps his mother was indeed just a..."

Davos shot them a side glance, holding in a tired sigh, the charade wouldn't last much longer: "Or perhaps it is not your place to wonder such things," he pointed out as he reached them.

They jumped, startled, their face whitening under his scrutinising glance.

"We didn't mean to..."

'People never mean anything in this damn place,' Davos thought forcefully but did not answer, knocking on the chambers' door instead.

Jon had come back the day before, with a perforated shoulder and the pale green skin of somebody who had lost too much blood, but he was still alive. Davos had cursed between his teeth as he led him to his bed, feeling a pang of righteous anger shattering through his chest, "You are a stupid fool, your Grace."

Jon had had a laugh, "This seems a bit redundant," he had pointed out "'stupid fool.'"

"So is your bloody foolishness," Davos had said then, unable to prevent the affectionate smile that had stretched on his lips as he motioned to help him out of his armour, his bandaged arm making the task difficult to do alone. "You could have died."

Jon had shrugged, looking up at him in silence, until finally he spoke: "But I didn't this time and we are still holding Karhold."

"Don't count your eggs, just yet, your Grace."

Jon had opened his mouth to answer but the Queen had walked into the room, her hungry stare devouring his face, and its intensity had almost made Davos uncomfortable as he had been dismissed with a gesture of his king's hand. He'd have to wait for the next day then.

One, two, three, four knocks, he stood by the door, as a voice called for him to enter.

"Your Grace," Davos had politely greeted him, head slightly bowed.

He was sitting by the window, brow furrowed in worry as he looked to the outside, seemingly lost in deep thoughts with his entire posture looking closed off to the rest of the world.

"Is there anything I should know, Davos?" Jon inquired, eyes turning toward him.

"Aye," he confirmed voice abrupt, there was no use in fidgeting around the subject, "people are talking more and more, about you, about who your mother could be."

"Are they now?"

"Afraid so. Dragon riding isn't exactly a casual activity, I think we don't have much more time."

He had been contemplative for an instant, his gaze losing itself through the window once more, "Do you think I am a good King?"

Shireen's face, teaching him to read by a flaming candlelight, appeared in his mind, smiling sweetly at him as he successfully deciphered his first word, 'Aegon. It sounds like an egg.' Stannis had made him believe in a king once, and Stannis had failed him, just as he had failed all of those that had followed him to war; men dying in the northern blizzard, their footsteps forgotten, erased by the falling winter snow.

"Of course you are, your Grace," he answered, Jon Snow hadn't been crowned when he had started to believe, and perhaps that was what made for a world of difference, "you are an excellent king."

"If that is true," Jon continued, and his voice was so quiet, it was as if he was talking to himself, "do you think it will matter when they know by the morrow?"

"Pardon me your Grace?" Davos questioned, unsure if he had heard well.

"I will tell them tomorrow," he explained then, "About who I am."

"What?"

He had stared at him, bemused, as silence befell them, unable to come up with anything else clever to answer.

The king breathed heavily, pinching at the bridge of his nose, "I intend to marry Daenerys,"

"What?" Davos asked again, his head spinning under the weight of information dropped on him at once.

"She is pregnant," the King explained then, "I love her, and I will not father a bastard."

Unable to regain any of his wits, Davos simply kept staring at him, mouth agape, collecting his thoughts with difficulty.

"As you said Davos, they will know sooner rather than later, they should hear it from me before she's made my Queen and I her King."

Once upon a time, Davos would have died for Stannis, a king made of steel who had forgotten heart along the way. But steel was unforgiving without heart, and heart was weak without steel, he knew that now, and he was all the wiser for it.

"Do you want to know what I think?" He asked Jon then.

The King had nodded slightly, looking like a boy of too few years with his hair freed and the light of the fire casting red shadows on his features. Someone so young and so good should not bear the world, no matter how apt they were at it, and Davos found himself grateful that perhaps he had found someone else to bear it with.

"I think they will still follow you."

Jon's grey eyes were glimmering strangely when he looked back at him, lips pressed together in a thin worried line.

"All those tough fuckers never believed in a name," Davos professed with all the strength he could muster, "they believed in you, just as they do now, and so do I."

* * *

 _AN: I'm being quite repetitive, but again, thank you to everyone who commented, I enjoy reading all of you and responding when I have time. I'll try to answer again this week to those who comment. This is a quieter chapter to build up some tension, I hope the slower pace won't be too jarring, but it sets up what is to follow. As usual, next chapter will come in a week, if you are still following this story by then, thank you._


	8. Tyrion (II)

**8- Tyrion (II)**

–

It was bright that day, white rays of sun sharply cut through the heavy curtains draped over her windows, making the dust visibly dance under their light. She was sitting stiffly in front of him, throwing him an inflexible stare. One of her hands was absent-mindedly stroking the head of Jon Snow's white direwolf, and he watched as the animal's snout sniffed at her belly before lying down at the foot of the table, his form taking up half the flooring, his red eyes intently fixated on him. Tyrion held in a sigh, wishing he could be anywhere else but here, even conversing with his cunt sister felt more appealing in that moment.

"I know that you do not approve," Daenerys said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that they had been stuck in for a few minutes, "I know that you think I am being unwise."

He shrugged, downing his wine at once, but did not reply, letting her go on.

"I will not change my mind."

He threw a glance at the ceiling, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at her, "This is exactly what I meant, when I told you to be careful to not let your feelings get in the way of..."

"It has nothing to do with feelings," she interrupted him then, voice unbending, "it was the right thing to do."

"For who?" Tyrion asked, forcing himself to keep his annoyance out of his tone, "for him or for you?"

"Both."

They fell into silence once more, and Tyrion turned his attention back toward Ghost, the wolf hadn't detached his eyes from him, the crimson of his glance making him shiver under its intensity - if Jon Snow could watch him through those eyes, he wouldn't have been surprised.

"How am I supposed to break the wheel if I don't let people chose their own fate?" she asked after a while, "The North elected him, thus the North is his."

He felt irritated now, utterly and completely, how could she not realise... or perhaps she did, and that was the fucking problem in the first place, he poured himself more wine, bracing himself for the fight that was to come, "You did not just let Jon Snow have the North, your Grace, you also let the North have Jon Snow. A small nuance, but an important one nonetheless."

She did not answer, turning her attention away from him, losing her glance somewhere on the wall behind him, closing herself off in her own mind.

"I know that it doesn't seem like it as of now, given the initial reaction," he continued, "but his banner men will soon come to realise that Jon Snow was served to them on a silver platter. They now have a legitimate heir to the Iron Throne who is also a northerner through and through. Jon Snow... _Aegon Targaryen_ is Ned Stark's greatest gift to the North, perhaps the greatest gift they have ever received; if they're not utterly idiotic they'll see that, and will use it."

Daenerys frowned at him, her glance hardening, "What would you have me do then?"

"Nothing more than what you had initially demanded of him, my Queen: have him kneel."

"And so a Targaryen gives away their land to another one, I'm not sure they'd still call him a king after that, they're not very fond of us, you see."

He had a sigh, feeling entirely too tired, "As I said, I do not believe they'll cast him aside, they will be smarter, I have heard them talk, many are already coming around to the idea. Have him kneel, your Grace, he will if you ask as he gave you his word."

She let out a noise of distaste, "Let's pretend that you are right, then I am taking away the king that they chose, how is that any better?"

"They chose him yes, and he chose you," he paused picking his words carefully, knowing she would not like what he was about to say next, "You are letting your love for him get in the way of making the smartest political choice, I must insist on that."

Her eyes darted back at him, burning with a cold anger, the kind that never failed to make him flinch reflexively, but he did not back down: "I wonder how long it will take for them to realise that they now have the means to get far more than just independence from the South, they can now assert political dominance over the Seven Kingdoms, all they have to do is put Jon on the throne, push his claim over yours."

"Tell me my Lord," she asked at that, keeping her voice equal but eyes burning even hotter, "How would Jon's fealty fix any of it? If I want the North to see me as their queen, I have to earn it, I always needed to earn it, regardless of his title or name, and I must insist as well, I fail to see how taking away their king will help."

Tyrion rubbed his eyes, letting out an annoyed breath, "That is a very noble thought, your Grace, but not a politically astute one, if Jon kneels then his pledge would compel him to push your claim, you'd gain his precious support and with it the North, instead of finding yourself with a competing one."

She raised an eyebrow at him, "What happened to right of conquest?" she asked, voice pragmatic, referring to their earlier conversation on the subject.

"I'm not seeing you conquering the North at the moment, you said as much yourself," he countered quickly, refusing to let himself be destabilised. He paused for a second, deliberately weighing his next words, "And if you leave them a choice, they won't chose you for as long as they can chose him."

Daenerys opened her mouth but he did not leave her the time to reply, expending on his thoughts: "I do not like it, but it is nevertheless the truth; if I was a man of the North instead of loyal to you, I would pick one of my own over a queen who grew up in foreign lands, it is only but the smart thing to do."

"Unless I marry him," she said, her eyes lowering on her interlocking fingers, "uniting our claims would solve this issue, wouldn't it?"

There it was, the real reason. For as much as she refused to admit it, the King in the North would have officially become a warden long ago if it wasn't for the minor issue of her being foolishly in love with him. She loved Jon Snow as a man and loved Aegon Targaryen as a kin; somebody she did not want to tame, to bend or to bow, somebody she wanted at her side, standing at her level much like her dragons, strong and unbreakable, rather than a step lower where she could not quite reach him the same. He could sympathise with that, truly he did, he had known love and loss too, just he had known family loyalty, but politics didn't care much for sympathy.

He tilted his head and considered her, her comely face was glowing white under the brightness of winter, "Marriage is indeed a solution," he conceded then.

"But?" she asked, clearly knowing that an objection was to come next.

"But this situation could have been resolved long ago if he had simply knelt, and his lords would already be well on their way to digest this fact," he said before adding, "and besides, I'm sure you are not the only one to have thought of a political marriage to Jon Snow, binding him further to the North would only be wise."

She swallowed with difficulty, failing at hiding just how averse she was to the idea, "Perhaps, but he is their king, not a prize to buy. He does as he pleases."

He watched as one of her hand came to rest at the top of her belly, her gaze unfocusing in the distance.

"Kings never do just as they please," Tyrion reminded her before continuing in a softer voice, "I know that you are pregnant, your Grace, I know why you are doing this."

They shared a knowing look for a few seconds, understanding passing in their silent exchange, "But as your hand, I still think it is unwise to not have him kneel in the meantime," he insisted as she broke their eye-contact.

Her intense violet eyes fixated on his once more, and when she spoke again, her voice was harsh with authority, finding her queenly mask once more, "It is done and I will not change my mind."

"Your Grace," he pleaded then, "there are still so many ways this could go wrong, and I do not want to see you lose everything that you have worked so hard for and aimed at for so long!"

"And I won't."

He sighed, knowing that there was no winning this argument, he simply hoped he wouldn't have to pick up the pieces when all would be said and done, "At least," he finished, contemplative, "I suppose succession is no longer an issue."

She did not reply.

–

Winterfell was noisy with whispers, buzzing along long corridors, hushed murmurs at the bottom of windy staircases, voice made low with secrecy for a truth that no longer needed any. Jon Snow was Aegon Targaryen, and none could quite process the meaning of it just yet.

The Starks had regrouped around Jon: when the king was out, they had hardly been seen separate since a few days, a pack of feral wolves ready to bare teeth at any outside aggression. Arya Stark had especially been restless, her hand never leaving the pommel of her sword, throwing sharp cutting glances at anyone who'd so much but look at her brother sideways, 'Try,' she was saying silently, grey eyes glimmering with menace, 'I dare you.' She looked ready to kill if needed be, he could understand that, as, if the Starks promised winter, the Lannisters always paid their debts.

Winterfell was noisy with whispers, long buzz of words that came to die around the eerily silent dinner table. He poured himself more alcohol trying to quash his awkwardness, chancing a glance at his Queen who was sitting to his right, with Ghost standing imposingly at her side, her concerned gaze darting to Jon's empty chair. Though the two monarchs had spend no night separate since he had come back, he could still tell that the King had been isolating himself a lot as of recent, dinning alone and only showing up at councils, as if he had been weary of imposing his presence to anyone.

Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined the air of Winterfell ever becoming as unbreathable with political intrigues as the Red Keep, 'home sweet home', he thought not without irony, all the handy work of the honourable Ned Stark; a man who had only ever told one lie, but what a lie had it been indeed.

"Dinner is excellent, Lady Sansa," Varys spoke suddenly in a clear attempt to break the tense silence.

She smiled politely at him, "Thank you, but I'm afraid it is nothing too fancy."

Tyrion shrugged, "As the saying goes: everything is fancy with enough wine."

She smiled a bit wider turning her eyes toward him, making him smile in turn, "I'm not sure this is an actual saying, my Lord."

"I said it," he pointed out "therefore it is now."

Her eyes sparkled with amusement but she replied nothing, glance turning back toward her plate. Jaime cleared his throat loudly next to him as silence befell them once more.

His brother had come back on the day the truth had come out, dismounting an injured horse but looking unharmed, "I see that the gods are still sparing your face," he had told him then as relief washed over him, "So many battles and not a single nasty scar, they must be enamoured with it."

Jaime had laughed, "I am happy to see you too."

It was strange how easy it had been to fall back in their old habits, rekindling a previous affection that never truly died, but this time freed of Cersei's presence standing like a monster in between them, never allowing their bond to grow as much as it could have. They hadn't talked of their father, the subject remaining off limits, and if it was to stay that way for the rest of their days, Tyrion would not complain, not that they ran a high chance to be very numerous anyway.

"My Lord," Brienne of Tarth's voice had interrupted them, and there was no mistaking the strong tenderness that she had managed to sneak into those two simple words, "You are still alive."

"Indeed I am," he answered, turning his attention toward her and giving her a toothy grin, "Have the King and the Queen arrived?" he enquired then, brow knitting into a worried expression.

"Yesterday my Lord, they came back with the dragons, the King is injured but he will live."

"I am glad," Jaime answered taking her hand in his and squeezing it slightly as if he had tried to reassure her. "I will need to speak to him, Karhold needs to be manned more if we are to hold it."

She nodded softly, locking her eyes in his, and Tyrion felt suddenly entirely out of place, he couldn't say he quite understood his brother's bond with the Lady knight, but it hadn't been hard to notice. They had spent a fair amount of time together since Jaime had arrived and pledged himself to the King in the North, they had mostly trained, exchanging playful squabbles in between the clings of their sparing swords; but the few quieter moments, full of prideful looks and affectionate concern, told another story entirely, a story that he wouldn't be able to name just yet.

"If you need to speak to the King," Tyrion interrupted them then, "you are being rather punctual, council is about to start."

"Very well," Jaime replied "Shall we?" And so they had made their way to the castle.

When he had entered the room, Tyrion had immediately noticed Jon's closed off posture, spine tensely rested against the back of his chair, his unhurt arm cradling his chest as if it had been bound to it, Arya Stark was fidgeting in her seat next to him, as Davos Seaworth's kind eyes never left his face. He took steps toward the table and sat at his queen's side, her body was rigid next to him, not even sparing him a quick glance, he frowned before meeting Sansa's eyes, she had been alone acknowledging his presence, he shot her a questioning look, eyebrows raising, but she simply diverted her eyes away, focusing them on the lords instead.

"Your Grace," Jaime addressed his king then, "I just came back with news of Karhold, we..."

Jon had raised up a palm, silencing his brother with this simple gesture, "We will have all the time to discuss Karhold later, Ser Jaime," he had said, his voice sounding oddly shaken, "this is not why I requested this council, please take a seat."

And his brother had obeyed, throwing a quizzing look at Tyrion as he sat on a free chair, he shook his head at him slightly, truly unaware of what was about to go on.

Jon stood after that, slow and deliberate, taking a deep breath as if he had been about to march to his death, "My Lords," he said in a low guarded voice, "I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you."

Tyrion's eyes had grown wide, and understanding at once what was about to be revealed, he had looked at Daenerys in earnest, trying and failing at catching her gaze, he came closer to her ear after that, speaking in an urgent whisper, "Please, tell me he isn't about to do what I think he is about to do." It was a terrible, horrible idea, he was certain of that.

She had not replied, leaving him no doubts to ponder anything more, and with nothing but dread running down his spine.

"Honest with us, your Grace?" Lord Cerwyn had asked politely.

"Aye," Jon answered, turning his grey eyes toward him, his face remained impressively impassive considering, "There is something about me that you should all know so you can all decide."

"Decide what?" another lord had enquired.

"If you still want me as your King," was Jon's simple answer and Tyrion could only admire the control the foolish northman had managed to keep his voice under.

A murmur had rolled in the room at those words, curious gazes peering at Jon, and he had kept standing, unmovable and impressive, his fur coat making him look larger than life in that instant, the splitting image of Ned Stark once more, upright and noble to the bitter end..

"Pardon me your Grace," Lyanna Mormont spoke then, "but what do you mean by that? We all chose you and pledged to you."

Jon had remained silent for a while, focused eyes travelling through the mass of faces looking up at him, his dark eyes stopping on every other one, "You chose Jon Snow," he explained, his voice a dark throaty whisper, "Ned Stark's bastard son, you did not chose me."

"I'm afraid I am not following you, your Grace," Lord Manderly had indicated, looking very much confused, "could you perhaps make yourself plainer?"

The room had been eerily silent when the King took a deep breath, as if understanding the weight of what was about to transpire, and Tyrion hadn't been able to prevent a grimace from etching on his face, bracing himself for the storm to come, strongly wishing he had been drunk, "When I came back here, I flew off on Rhaegal and quite a few people started to whisper about that, wondering why it happened and how it could be. I kept the truth to myself until now, only entrusting it to a few of my closest entourage, unsure of what to do with it."

Jon had a pause, looking down at his hands, not quite maintaining his usual reserved demeanour as eyes were digging at his face, eager and hungry.

"You have all been wondering about who my mother was, 'who could she possibly have been if I can ride a dragon', right? Perhaps you should have wondered who my father was instead."

The silence was thick and heavy after those words, and Tyrion found himself holding his breath, anticipation building strongly inside those wide stone walls, leaving them crushed underneath it. He was definitely getting drunk later, perhaps he should invite Jon Snow to join him, the poor sod would need it even more than he did.

"You chose me because I was Ned Stark's bastard," Jon kept going, finding Arya's gaze next to him as if looking for courage, "but I am not, I am not even his son."

"What?" a single voice had risen, stunned and young, Lady Alys Karstark had spoken softly the question that all the lords had probably been asking themselves in that moment.

"He went to Dorne to find his sister twenty-two years ago," he explained, locking his gaze with hers, "but only came back with me instead, why do you think is that, Lady Karstark?"

Tyrion watched as Lord Manderly let out a gasp, eyebrows frowning and then eyes widening in astounded comprehension, "It can't be..." he whispered under his breath.

"And yet, it is," Jon addressed him then, "Lady Lyanna Stark died birthing me, the last thing she did was ask Ned Stark to protect me, knowing Robert Baratheon would kill me if he had known, he vowed to kill all of them after all... all of us" he corrected himself at the end.

Nobody spoke for a while, deafening silence falling on them all as a collective breath was held, until Lord Glover suddenly erupted: "Lies! Lord Eddad told us he found Lyanna killed, the she-wolf died from the injuries inflicted on her by the vile Rhaegar Targaryen!"

"My brother was no such man."

Daenerys voice had managed to sound calm, burning, cold, and angered all at once when she spoke, catching everybody's attention as her gaze cut through the crowd like a sharp blade and Tyrion felt grateful not to be at the receiving end of it for once.

"Why should we trust the words of a Targaryen over those of our most honourable lord?" he spat at her.

But Bran Stark had spared him Daenerys' wrath, speaking in turn: "Because I saw it."

He was as collected as usual, his face blank and emotionless, "I saw it all. Daenerys Targaryen is right, Rhaegar did not kidnap Lyanna, nor did he rape her, she went willingly and married him in Dorne, Jon's true name is Aegon. Aegon Targaryen."

A murmur had followed those words.

"I am not Ned Stark's bastard," Jon repeated once more, as Tyrion caught him throwing a strange glance at his brother, "Rhaegar Targaryen fathered me, and as it appears, gave me his name."

He was standing rigidly, his unhurt hand curled around the pommel of his sword, holding it in a tight grip as he looked over the crowd of shocked faces, their glances soberly piercing through him with intent, and Tyrion could feel Daenerys slightly tremble next to him, as if she had been fighting an urge he could not pinpoint.

"So, you are the son of the she-wolf?" Lord Manderly asked, the old man looked impressively calm, he had to admit.

"I am." the king responded.

"Is there a written proof?"

"If I might," Samwell Tarly had spoken, clearing his throat awkwardly, "I once transcribed a High Septon's diary confirming the union of Rhaegar and Lyanna, I'm sure there are official records of it somewhere at the citadel, perhaps we could..."

He did not finish his sentence, giving his friend a questioning glance instead, Jon had slightly nodded in agreement before speaking again, and Tyrion watched as Arya stood next to him, taking his hand in hers and interlocking her small fingers with his, her wild glance sweeping over the room in warning.

"You shall decide now, if you still want me to be your king, if you can trust a Targaryen after so often saying that you could not, because this is what I am no matter how little I wish it so...," his voice broke, and when he spoke again, his long features suddenly closed off, the harshness laid on his last words had sounded unpleasant, "Ned Stark lied once, and I was this lie, you deserve to know it from me before what's yet to come."

As the silence fell on them once more, Jon had dropped Arya's hand and motioned for the door, stunned heads following him out of the room. The vision had seemed to jolt Daenerys out of a strange trance as she jumped on her feet and followed on his toes, the white direwolf trailing quickly in their wakes.

The door had closed with a click, and the council room had exploded into a raged clamour.

It had been difficult to pick up any words amidst the echoes of clashing voices bouncing against the stone walls, and Tyrion quietly wondered if perhaps one could be rendered deaf from too much yelling.

"A Targaryen!" One lord had spat as if the name had been an insult, and for all he knew, perhaps it was in the North, who knew what fancies they had picked up since the last time he had been here.

"My Lords..." he had tried then, in a failed attempt to silence them.

"We don't need to be listening to a Lannister either, dwarf!" he had been cut by another voice.

And so they had continued, "How do we even know it's true?" one had asked.

"Why else can he ride a dragon," another had replied.

"He is no king of mine then!" a third one had exclaimed.

To Tyrion's surprise, it was the Hound's voice that had roared above the noise, strong enough to catch everybody's attention, snarling at the banner men with abject disgust painted on his burned face, "Dumb cunts, the lot of you! Fancy lords sitting on their fancy useless asses, doing nothing of use! The dead are here and all you do is whinge."

"I do not permit you, Clegane," Lord Cerwyn had shot back, standing up at once.

"Permit me?" the man had questioned sardonically, "It ain't nothing to permit, you're a dumb cunt, and so is the rest of you. Who the fuck gives a shit about a fucking name, this man saved you bunch of whiny cunts so many time, the number would make you shit your pants if only you could count."

"The Dog is right," the wilding man called Tormund had stood up on his injured leg, walking toward the young lord slowly, no less impressive despite his slight limp, "You know nothing, don't you boy? Haven't seen you risking your life beyond what's left of the Wall, I have seen Jon plenty, when he was King Crow and after that, and I have seen the queen with the dragons as well, but not you."

Lord Cerwyn recoiled almost imperceptibly as his eyes turned toward Sansa in a clear appeal for her support, "My Lady, this wilding..."

But Sansa cut him off, as he found no ally in her cold eyes, "Sit, my Lord."

He had not dared to disobey.

"If Jon is not your king, go on and take his place, I dare you to try, but you have to know that he is still mine as he is still my brother, and he is still a Stark," Arya had spoken, voice laced with fury, she was still standing in the same spot Jon had left her a few minutes ago, her jaw clenched in anger, hand gripping the pommel of her sword with so much strength her knuckles had turned white. "Go on and try your luck on us, it worked well for the Boltons, it worked well for the Freys."

Arya's fierce eyes had swept the room daringly, rendering everybody wordless, until the old solemn voice of Lord Manderly had resounded, a surprised murmur following his words, "And he is still my King as well, my Lady. I made a pledge that I intend to honour," he marked a pause before continuing, "The North only bowed to the Dragons, it appears as if they are back, and they might as well save us all."

The plural had not escaped Tyrion, and he suppressed a frown, pondering the hidden meaning behind it all. It was still too early to cry for victory.

–

Tyrion prided himself to be a smart man most of the time, but when he failed, he did so in spectacular fashion indeed.

He had never wished for the death of his family, never truly. He had killed his mother on the day he was born, killed his father on the eve of the day he was to die, would have spared an arrow for his sister had he been able to, he had been like a mad dog turning against an abusive master on that fateful night, barking, growling and biting anything in his path, as he told Daenerys once: he was the greatest Lannister killer of all time and yet... yet. He had never truly wished to see his name die, never wished to bear witness to the downfall of Casterly Rock; he knew Cersei would never believe that, and as he pondered on Varys' words, he wondered to what extent he had unwittingly given her justification for that belief.

"The Golden Company landed in King's Landing," the bald man had said in a sombre voice, "if my little birds are to be believed."

Tyrion sighed, pouring ale in two large wooden cups before handing one to the other man, "You look like you need a drink."

Varys turned up his nose, but didn't refuse, taking a seat in front of him, worried wrinkles appearing on his forehead.

"My sister has a grand sense of timing, I'll give her that."

He had not yet recovered from his latest night of drinking himself into stupor but found that he didn't care, downing a large sip of the strong beverage, wincing slightly as it burned the back of his throat.

"She did not tell you either, did she?" Varys asked then, and he hadn't needed to specify anything more for Tyrion to understand.

"I was blind-sided, same as you," he confirmed, voice dull, unable to feel any surprise despite his concerns - Daenerys had been listening to him less and less as of recent.

"With luck," Varys said sounding thoroughly unconvinced, "the North will decide to cast him aside and we won't need to deal with the aftermath. A claim without support isn't much."

Tyrion snorted in disagreement, "Then they're fools, he is their best chance, in more ways than just one, and even if they were, they'll find it hard to take away his crown without the Starks supporting it. And they won't. Support it, I mean."

He knew that Sansa was no idiot, and from what he could witness neither were Arya or Bran.

"Indeed," Varys had a nod of agreement, wincing in turn as he drank. They fell into silence for a moment, before he continued, "The old Lord Manderly intends to offer him one of his granddaughters' hands."

Tyrion finished the rest of his cup in one go, relishing the feeling of alcohol rasping at his throat this time, and poured himself some more, "I'm surprised he is only the first one."

He drank again, lying back against the chair, closing his eyes to let the swing of drunkenness overtake him. Daenerys certainly wouldn't be happy to hear about that, he was sure, and it was one more thing to add to the never ending pile of bullshits he'd soon have to deal with, 'I can't tell which sounds more exciting' he thought dryly as he let out a long breath, alcohol creeping on his senses, the stupidest Lannister might as well be him instead of Jaime after all, how else would he allow himself to end up in such predicament otherwise.

Later that day, as the darkness of the night had set on the white winter light, he had stumbled to Jaime's chamber, barely feeling the cold in his drunken state. It was a small crowded room with Widow's Wail and his Stark Armour rested at the foot of the bed, it couldn't be much bigger than a large broom closet

"Cersei will be attacking from the south soon," he announced his brother bluntly, feeling slow with alcohol, "The Golden Company has landed in Westeros."

Jaime had sat on his bed and gestured for him to take place at his side, shaking his head slightly as his eyes fell on the dusty flooring.

"It will make it harder." Tyrion whispered under his breath, voice sinking dimly in the wooden walls.

"Harder to do what?" Jaime asked, his quizzing glance falling on him, he could barely make him out in the darkness.

He had never wanted his family dead, never truly. And for as far as his memories could take him, he had never liked Cersei, not that his mad sister had returned him much affection of course, all cold glance, cutting words and sharp edges as she was. But none had to like someone in order to feel loyal he had found, how else would the Lannister's line have survived until now if it was anything but the truth?

"Harder to save her," Tyrion explained, as the image of Cersei not giving the order to kill him flashed in his brain, "And therefore harder to save your child." He thought of Tommen and then of Myrcella, blond and sweet and innocent.

Jaime hadn't replied, understanding resting heavy in the air.

* * *

 _AN: It took me a bit more time to finish this one and I'm not certain I'm 100% happy with it, nor with my writing, I went back and forth deciding if I should show the reveal or only focus on the reactions instead, wondering if perhaps it was too redundant given how my story started with a similar scene. Ultimately, I decided to show it as I figured it would be frustrating not to since I had build up so much tension leading up to it. As a result I have a chapter perhaps too heavy on politics, and I'm still on the fence as to whatever or not it was the right decision, given the length I couldn't cram more into it so I hope it wasn't too frustrating of a read._

 _Thank you for reading and commenting, if you are still there, I'm still astounded by the response I am getting._


	9. Sam

**9- Sam**

–

"Or so I will tell your mother, nothing would please me more." Randyll Tarly's face was made of stone, looking down upon him with so much hatred he could feel it crawl under his skin like a poisonous spider.

Sam felt a shiver run down his spine, feeling small under his father's stare, severe and cutting eyes boring at him as if they had never shared any blood, as if he had been nothing but a thing to be crushed under his soldier's foot.

"Nothing would please me more," he repeated again, voice trenchant.

His hand came to snake around Sam's neck, squeezing until he choked, drawing tears from his eyes. He was gasping for air, unsuccessful strangled pants that came to die on his bluing lips, his fingers desperately struggling to loosen the murderous grip.

"Nothing would please me more," the phrase echoed, ringing in his head as a dizzying bell, and the fist tightened even more, cutting off blood flow from his jugular, hand suddenly made of fire setting his skin aflame.

He closed his eyes, frantically trying to breathe but unable to, a child cried in the distance, and he was jerked awake.

"Shhhh," a voice soothed, "you will wake him up."

Sam opened his eyes and sat on the bed, his heart still erratic from the nightmare, banging fiercely against his ribcage as he looked around; the day was still dark. Gilly's head turned toward him at his sudden motion, looking beautiful with her honey hair left messy from sleep and the glow of the hanging torch framing her frail body, "You did wake him up," she said in a toothy smile, turning her soft glance back toward little Sam.

"It's fine," Sam said, feeling his heart swell at the vision of her, she was dressed in a simple nightgown, holding their son against her chest and cradling him tenderly, "It's fine, I will have to get up soon anyway."

Gilly frowned at him, taking steps toward the bed and laying down next to him, placing their child in between them - he looked less and less like a baby and more and more like a boy every day now, "It is not even light," she pointed out.

"No," Sam agreed, "but it still time to get up."

Winter had made the days short lived and the nights longer and darker than ever before, and even though the moon had not yet set, he could still tell that Jon would be waiting for him soon enough. He sat on the side of the mattress, feet hitting the dark wooden floor with a soft thump, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to chase away his sleepiness. Gilly's arms came to encircle his shoulders from behind, "Isn't it dangerous?" she asked in a whisper against his ear.

"I'll be fine," he responded.

"I do not like you getting close to the dragons, Sam," Gilly said in a lofty tone.

"Jon will be with me," he reassured her, turning slightly in her embrace to place a chaste kiss on her parted lips, "nothing will happen to me."

He tore himself away from her and started dressing, readying himself to meet his friend - Jon had asked for his opinion on Rhaegal's injury and they were set to meet at dawn that day.

"I'll be back soon," he said to Gilly before leaving, "I love you."

The dream kept replaying in his mind as he walked, it had been reoccurring for days on end now: it always started the same, with the conversation that had sent him to die at the Wall on a fateful evening all those years ago - his father had expected nothing else at the time, and if it wasn't for Jon Snow befriending him, he might as well have been right. But he was still alive and Randyll was dead, taking Dickon with him in his downfall. 'Had his brother known?' he wondered quietly, 'Had he been aware of the fate their father had intended for him?' He wanted to think that he hadn't and had clung to that believe ever since, but now Dickon was gone and he would never be sure.

He knocked softly at Jon's door, greeting two young guards with a nod of his head, awaiting to be invited in, and getting no answer he called for his name, knocking a bit stronger.

"Come in," the low voice of his brother finally rose from the other side.

Jon was not yet fully dressed, fastening his breaches over the rough chemise that he wore underneath all of the layers of fur, and when Sam's glance had travelled to his bed, his eyes had widened in bewilderment, turning on his heels at once, feeling thoroughly embarrassed, "Sorry," he stumbled upon his words awkwardly, "I didn't know you were here, your Grace."

She had a small giggle, sounding utterly bizarre falling from her lips, "It's fine, my Lord, I'm perfectly presentable."

He clumsily cleared his throat, turning his attention back toward Jon, "We were supposed to meet?"

"Yes," he said, gesturing toward his injury, "I'm almost ready, it takes longer with the shoulder."

Daenerys got up from the bed and he breathed a silent sigh of relief; the gown she wore was simple, but indeed covered her up completely. She started to work on Jon's clothing after that, fastening the buckles of his armour over his shoulders before adjusting Longclaw at his hip, "Take it easy," she asked him, voice gentler and warmer than he had ever heard her speak in before.

Sam watched as they peered at each other, burning pupils interlocking, as if they were having an unspoken conversation that he could not understand, and he looked away again, feeling entirely out of place. Finally Jon took her face in between his palms and placed a quick kiss on her lips, "I will," he promised simply before addressing him, throwing his heavy cape over his frame and fixing his leather gloves on his hands, "Let's go."

For a moment they just walked side by side without speaking, listening to the silence of dawn, howling winds gusting through the chinks of Winterfell's old cracked walls, making the castle sing a cold and haunting lullaby, and he shivered, trying to fend off the cold creeping under his too thin clothes.

"Shit," Jon said, breaking the silence, "It's cold."

"It really is," Sam concurred, "I wish I still had my other cloak. The Night's Watch one, I mean." he clarified.

Jon threw him a side glance, dark eyes reading his face quickly, "If you need furs, you only have to ask, you know that, right?"

"I know," he said, "Don't worry about me," he had enough to think of as it was.

"Are Gilly and the babe alright as well?" Jon insisted.

"They're fine," Sam promised in a small smile, "In fact, I don't think calling Sam a babe is very accurate any longer, they grow so fast, you will see when... well..."

Jon smiled back at him, opening the door leading to the outside, freezing morning air biting at their skins in welcome.

"About that, how is the... how is Daenerys?"

Jon quirked an eyebrow at him, "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?"

The snow was cracking under their feet as they walked, falling flakes erasing their footsteps as soon as they had left them. They'd soon be unable to tell the difference between Winterfell and the Land of Always Winter, it seemed to him.

"Gilly has been caring for her," Sam explained, "she knows more about babies and pregnancy than I do."

In truth, Sam had been grateful for that, he was still unsure of what to think of the queen who had burned half of his family alive; the first and only time they had spoken about it was shortly after he had confirmed that she was with child.

"You do not like me very much, my Lord," she had told him, deadpan.

It was not a question.

"Truthfully your Grace," he had answered, voice hesitant, "I do not know you enough to hold such an opinion."

She had been standing by her window, her white hair reflecting against the light, hand clasped over her belly.

"I am sorry about your father and your brother, my Lord," she had said in a courtly but sincere voice, face grave and solemn, "truly."

He had shrugged a bit, handing her Gilly's concoction for child bearing sickness, "I am sure my father deserved it."

She had observed him intently, her intense burning gaze making him feel uneasy, until at last she had said, sounding prudent: "But not your brother."

And unable to lie to her, he had replied, lowering his gaze despite himself: "Perhaps not."

She had looked away, shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly, looking pensively to the outside, "I offered him to kneel, and then to take the black, he refused both."

He had not answered, waiting for her to go on, "They had betrayed the Tyrells."

'I know', Sam had thought sadly.

Dickon had once been his little brother, the one who used to sneak into his room at night, listening to him recount the stories scribed in the old dusty books that he loved so much. Aegon the Conqueror or Aemon the Dragonknight were among his favourite, his small frame shaking with excitement next to him as he had started to read aloud for the umpteenth time. But then they had grown up and grown apart, and he was gone now, ashes blowing in the wind, never to be found again.

"He was brave to the end." Daenerys finished with a softening voice.

Sam had found himself voiceless after that, unable to answer, and with tears burning at the edge of his eyes, he had hurried toward the exit, but as he was about to get out he had turned back toward her, thinking of another brother that he had found along the way, "I know that you care about Jon." And she had nodded at him, needing no further explanation.

He had been torn out of his thoughts by the creaking sound of Winterfell's heavy gates, "Your Grace," the guards bowed politely as he and Jon passed. The latter didn't answer, acknowledging them with a gesture of his head.

They waited for Rhaegal after that, standing rigidly just outside the castle, eyes searching the empty white sky, "You do realise that I don't know much about dragon's anatomy, right?" Sam asked as to break the silence they had fallen in.

Jon had a laugh, "But you know more about healing than I do."

He had nodded, remaining silent and so Jon continued, suddenly changing the subject, as if he had been meaning to ask for a while, "Do you think they're still alive?" Sam threw him a questioning glance and so his friend had gone on, "Edd and the others... Castle Black is probably gone now."

Sam let out a loud breath, "I'm sure Edd is, he is tough, he is probably on his way here as we speak."

"Aye, he has survived a lot," but despite his words, Jon's voice had sounded unconvinced.

Sam didn't reply, lowering his glance to the ground, suddenly fascinated with the falling flakes melting at his feet, all too aware of the tension that had filled the air in between them. They were both pondering alike, he knew, both worrying the same and thinking in 'what ifs', searching for a resolution that none could give them.

"To go back to the Queen," Sam had tried then, attempting to unburden the atmosphere.

"What about her?" Jon said, looking toward him, eyebrows rising in apprehension.

"At least it is settled, you do know where to put it."

A heartfelt laugh had greeted his joke, "Piss off," Jon had said then, playfully shoving him forward, and Sam laughed with him, falling head first in the white snow.

–

It was strange to think of old Maester Aemon now, dying in a warm bed, calling out for a family that was long gone, when, all this time, he had had a kin standing so close to him, hidden in plain sight under the disguise of a bastard's name. "A Targaryen alone in the world, is a terrible thing," the old man had told him once, after he had read him the tales of Daenerys' feats from across the Narrow Sea; she no longer was now and neither was Jon, and despite the reservation he still had, he couldn't help but feel glad for the both of them. He had internalised the lesson, it seemed.

Sam had felt a pang of sadness at the time, knowing that he had meant the sentence as much for himself as he had her, but he hadn't been alone, Jon had been right there, and if one good thing had come out of this mess, then it definitely was it.

He looked at them from across the room, Jon hovering sternly over the table, body made rigid with anger, face austere; nobody was talking, holding a breath in at his inflexible glance. His grey eyes were sweeping at his lords, as if daring them to talk back, daring them to try and contradict him once more, but none were moving, fearful of the savage wolf standing before them in that moment.

It had started a few minutes ago, as Jon had stood in front of his banner men, asking in a deep low voice that gave nothing away, "No matter the decision you will make, my Lords, the North is my home and I will keep fighting for it and for those who once wished to entrust me with it."

"That is good to hear, your Grace," Lyanna Mormont had said emphasising his title, "House Mormont made a pledge that it will honour, it is good to hear that you'll honour yours as well."

His face had softened as it always did when his eyes fell on her, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips, "I am grateful for your confidence my Lady"

"House Mormont remembers," the little lady had continued, voice and eyes defiant as she looked upon her fellow lords.

"'The North knows no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark'" Lord Glover had recited then, throwing a glance at her, "Isn't that right, my Lady?"

She frowned at him in clear disapproval, and had opened her mouth to speak, but Arya had cut her off as her hard glance, so alike her brother, had fixated on the lord, "What are you implying, Glover?"

"I mean no offence my Lady," he had hurriedly explained, frightened eyes finding Jon, "And no offence to you, my King, but that isn't your name."

"It was his blood that mattered when you knew him as Jon Snow," Sansa Stark's voice had risen, looking calm and deadly all at once, "That hasn't changed."

"My Lady, I…"

But she did not leave him any time to reply, "Or are you implying that Stark women only count as half? Do I count as half, my Lord?"

"Of course not, my Lady," he had answered in earnest, panicking eyes skimming the stone room, "of course you are a Stark."

"Then it is settled," she had asserted, her voice suffering no objection, "because so was Lyanna Stark, and therefore so is Jon."

Lord Glover had not answered, lowering his gaze to the floor instead, and Sam had suppressed a smile.

"House Manderly agrees with House Mormont," the old Lord had let known after that, looking directly at his king, "We will honour our pledge."

"I am glad to hear that," Jon had replied, sounding vaguely relieved.

But the lord hadn't finished, "And to cement this alliance, we also wish for closer ties in between our two proud families."

"Closer ties?" Jon had asked looking up at him, eyebrows furrowed.

"Aye," the old Lord had clarified, head nodding, "I wish to offer you one of my granddaughters' hands."

The face that Jon had made at that would have been comical if the moment hadn't been so serious, and Sam had watched as his oldest friend stared at the elderly man in stupor, mouth open. Next to him, Daenerys had closed herself off in anger, seething in between her teeth, face green with an unique kind of fury, one that none felt about anyone but a lover.

"My Lord," Jon answered, swallowing with difficulty, "It is hardly the moment."

"Why not?" The man had answered, throwing a sharp knowing glance at the Dragon Queen, "such a union makes perfect sense, as it would anchor your hold on the North once you sit on the throne."

Jon's stupor had widened, "I have no wish for another throne, my Lord, I never even asked for this one."

"Your Grace..." the old man insisted.

But Jon wasn't listening, speaking in a hardening voice: "The army of the dead is advancing upon us, we have no time to lose on such matters, I will not discuss it further," he looked at the Queen and then at Davos, who was shaking his head at him slightly, but Jon had purposefully looked away as if suddenly making a decision, "And I am sorry my Lord, but I intend to marry Queen Daenerys Targaryen, I no longer have any hand to give, nor do I wish for any other to take."

An uproar had resounded after that, and Sam had felt as if he had been transported back to a few days ago, when the truth of Jon's heritage had come out, shooting voices resounding in echoes against the walls, "Refusing a good northern woman!", "Targaryens will never change, mating with each other as always!", "Same as Robb Stark, that fool, picking a foreign whore!"

It was this last sentence that had seemed to plunge Jon into a cold white anger, he had banged his fist against the wooden table, nostrils flared in rage and eyes cutting acutely through the crowd, drawing bemused glances toward him - none of them had ever witnessed him lose his cool in such a way before. And Sam had known that whoever had yelled had been lucky to have his voice rendered unrecognisable amidst the collective clamour.

"We need unity," Jon had said fiercely, "we need it now if we are to survive, and we will need unity after that if we are to rebuilt, the North will not stand on its own, it cannot," his steel glance had glided through the room, looking unmovable, "The decision has been made, I will not change it, if I am to stay your king, you'll have to come to term with it."

He had stopped talking then, letting his words sink in, exchanging a long heated stare with the Dragon Queen. She had not spoken a word, her dignified icy silence speaking louder than any word could have in that moment, and the room had no longer protested despite the palpable tension that had been left hanging, only Tyrion Lannister had looked oddly pleased, sitting at the corner of the table, a strange smile playing on his lips.

Sam found Jon in his study after that, restlessly pacing in his room, a hasty hand messing his hair and making almost all of his black curls fall off from the leather strip that held them back. He hadn't been able to help a smile at the vision; his friend looked as he had known him best during their time at the Wall. Jon's dark eyes had darted at him when he had entered, but he hadn't spoken, watching him take a seat in front of his desk instead, "Do you need a drink, Jon?" Sam had asked softly.

His friend sat in front of him in a sigh, as if deflating before his eyes, belying how much he hated to rule, "No."

"Alright," Sam answered him with an encouraging smile, "I hope you don't mind if I get one."

They had fallen into silence after that, Jon's eyes lost on the ceiling and his head thrown backward, absent fingers fidgeting at the pommel of his sword, until he suddenly spoke, voice thick and introspective: "I wonder what my father would say... Ned Stark I mean... I'm about to break the lasts of my vows."

Sam glanced at the side of Jon's face, grey eyes still turned upward, a guilty expression painted on his beautiful features, "You didn't break your vows Jon, you pledged your life and you gave it."

"As I was told more than once; that is up for interpretation. I had pledged my life for all nights to come and here I am, I had sworn to wear no crown and to win no glory and here I stand, I promised I would take no wife and father no children and...well... perhaps those lords are right to be distrustful of an oath-breaker, he would have beheaded me for it."

Sam frowned, careful of what to say next, fully aware of who 'he' was, "I strongly doubt that he would have," from what Sam knew, Ned Stark was no Randyll Tarly after all, and honour had not stopped him from living a lie in order to protect a baby boy that he had loved as his own, "And even if you were an oath-breaker Jon, you were never meant to rot at the Wall anyway, we all knew it. I did, Edd did, so did Grenn and Pyp, you were always meant for more."

"Alliser Thorne never agreed with that," Jon noted pointedly.

The sentence had echoed in the room and Sam had felt a pang in his chest, chattering against his ribs, understanding all too well the weight of Jon's words, "There is no Thorne here, Jon."

He hadn't answered for a few minutes, obviously reflecting on long-past harrowing memories, as if searching in their depth for answers that he'd never find, "No, but there are lords second guessing me. I am failing again, I'm failing to make them see," he finally said after a while, and the gloom in his voice had seemed to swallow him whole.

"You never failed in the first place," Sam had stressed, keeping his tone as strong as he could.

Jon turned his attention back toward him, keen eyes scrutinising his face, "I have failed plenty."

"Perhaps, but you learned from it," Sam held a breath, weighing his next words, "It won't happen again Jon, they need you and they know it."

Jon hadn't replied to that, losing himself in his mind once again, his back resting stiffly against his chair, "I failed plenty," he repeated after a while, "I failed Grenn and I failed Pyp, they died fighting a worthless war when I told them to."

"You are not responsible for Pyp's death Jon, I was there remember, I held him when he bled out."

Jon finally looked back at him, sadness burdening on his features, "But I did send Grenn to the gates, and he died there, for nothing."

Maester Aemon had died in his bed, old and grey and wrinkled, lying in a dark castle by the icy wall he had chosen over a throne. He had called for his brother Aegon that night, unaware that his name-sake was standing inside those same walls. It was strange to think back to that now, to wonder quietly if the old wise man had suspected at all, if perhaps somewhere deep down he had known; had known that the boy with the raven hair and the false bastard name had been sharing the blood of the dragon. "Kill the boy and let the man be born," Aemon had told Jon on his death bed, his old voice tired from too much living, and as Sam looked up at his friend, the strain of leadership making his tensed features look older than his years, he had known that Jon had done his best to try ever since, and had succeeded more than he gave himself credit for.

And so, unable to stand his guilt, Sam had locked his eyes with his, "Grenn didn't die for nothing, Jon. He died for you, he died for something he believed in, I can think of plenty of worse ways to go."

No reply had come to that.

–

Winterfell's weirwood tree was beautiful, red leaves still burgeoning in the cold, a silent life force in the death of winter. He looked up from his book to watch Bran: the young lord was sat next to it, the wheels of his chair digging in the snow, his eyes as white as the wood of the sacred old seed that had grown for centuries, thriving under the eyes of ancient gods he had once converted to.

He remembered saying his words with Jon, young and green and sent to his death by a father who had no use for him, unaware of the fate awaiting him behind a wall of ice, 'I am the sword in the darkness, I am the watcher on the walls, I am the shield that guards the realm of men.' Jon had been wrong, he had not forsaken all of his vows, neither of them had, they were still here, and they were still fighting, fulfilling the most solemn part of the oath: the only one that truly mattered once the darkness of night, long and never-ending, had set upon them all.

Time was running on their heels, taunting them from behind, threatening to catch up with them and shattering the fragile equilibrium of an alliance that they had so precariously build. The truth about Jon had shaken but not yet broken it; if the lords had talked and sneered at first, the chatter had quietened after a few days. Perhaps the news of the Golden Company landing in Westeros had been a welcome catalyst for that, reminding everyone of what still needed to be accomplished if they wanted to see the dawn with some breathes left in them.

Jorah Mormont had left that morning, accompanied by the Hound, both tasked with infiltrating the mercenary army.

"Perhaps there is another way to deal with the Golden Company your Grace," Jorah Mormont had spoken the day before as they were having their small council, eyes fixated on Daenerys Targaryen who had returned him a quizzing glance.

"Is there?" she had questioned, the violet of her iris considering him with care, "Cersei will be marching in, we need to strike with the dragons, without the Reach we cut the little food supply that we have left."

"Or perhaps we can keep the Reach and win more men."

A murmur had followed his words, travelling among the few souls that were standing in the room, "What do you mean by that, Ser Jorah?" Jon had asked, voice equal.

The old bear had turned toward him, shifting his weight nervously, "I joined them when I first escaped to Essos," he explained, "many of those men fled Westeros after the fall of Aerys and the death of...," he had paused apprehensively, "the death of Rhaegar Targaryen, many of them were loyal to him, perhaps we could convince them to fight for his sister and...," he cut himself, swallowing.

"And for his son," Tyrion had finished introspective, as if thinking to himself, "it could work."

Sam had studied Jon after that, his face had stayed remarkably inscrutable, the grey of his iris focused on the knight, but Sam knew Jon well and he could tell his brain had started racing, assessing the situation and keeping his emotions at bay.

"Your Grace," Jorah insisted turning his attention back toward his queen, "Give me some time to try, I can travel south and contact people I used to know, see what they have to say, I will be more useful there, you do not need my protection any longer," he finished, eyes darting at Jon.

"It might be worth a try," the Queen had nodded, but despite her agreement, she had not been quite successful at masking her concern.

"I'll join him," Sandor Clegane had spoken then, face unreadable, "Two swords are better than one."

And so it had been decided, and they had left with a mission.

The weirwood tree was beautiful, white ray of winter sun piercing through tree leaves, making the snow look red at its wooden foot. The haunting face carved on its trunk was looking back at him, making him feel watched for a fleeting second, and for the first time since the oath he had once taken, back in the days, a lifetime ago, he had felt the urge to pray to deities he wasn't sure existed. 'Was his brother with the old gods?' he wondered sadly, perhaps yes, or perhaps with the Seven, he couldn't tell, Dickon had never been one for spirituality, he had grown believing in swords, thinking they could fix everything, in the same way Sam had kept believing in books. They had both been wrong, of course: most of the time, one needed both.

Sam knew for a fact that no gods would want his father, however. "Nothing would please me more," his voice resounded in his ears once more, cold and harsh in the darkness, and Sam wanted to feel the same, wanted to feel pleased that the man who had terrified him for so long was no longer alive, was no longer anywhere for that matter, but found that he couldn't, and perhaps that was his true victory. Randyll Tarly had bent him, iron hand squeezing at his neck in an attempt to choke his spirit away, but he had never broken him, he had failed.

"We need to tell Jon!" Bran's panicked voice had taken him out of his thoughts, his eyes instantly darting back toward him, taken aback by the sudden outburst of a kind of emotion that the youngest Stark had so scarcely let spill in all the time he had spend at his side.

"Tell him what?" Sam had asked, fear grasping at his stomach.

"They are coming," Bran said, breath restless and eyes broadened, "They will be in Winterfell in the night."

'I am the sword in the darkness, I am the watcher on the walls, I am the shield that guards the realm of men', the prayer resounded in his ears, rendering him deaf to anything else around him, Gilly's laughing face appeared in his mind, beautiful and wild under a yellow ray of sun: the Night King was in a hurry, arriving early to take them all.

He had been sent to the Wall to die for being too afraid, but he had stood on his feet and lived, finding bravery in his fright. Randyll Tarly had been wrong all along, he was still here and he was still breathing. He would fight.

* * *

 _AN: I'm posting a bit late but for my defence, my beta reader deserted me for a bit (at least it allows me to be back posting on week-end, which I prefer). If you are still patiently waiting, reading and / or commenting, thank you a lot for your time. Next chapter should arrive in a week, and it should be quite action packed, so I needed to build up to it with this one first._


	10. Jaime

**10- Jaime**

–

His father had always wanted to make a lord out of him, perhaps even a king, teaching him to read by a candlelight until the depth of night had long set on dusk, his stern face looking down on him with cold determination. He had been just a boy at the time, head full of dreams where he never bore any crown; he never had Cersei's taste for their golden glow, nor did he have Tyrion's gift for dancing through political plottings, his forked tongue for only weapon. Jaime had always been made for the sword, yielding the honour and duty of knighthood, a calling that his father had never truly accepted, unable to see that the children he had wanted were right under his nose - in the form of a woman with high cheekbones and a dwarf with mismatched eyes.

He had made his way back to Cersei in King's Landing once upon a time, when Tywin had been hand to Aerys Targaryen and had planned to betroth his daughter to Prince Rhaegar. He had given up a claim, a title, an inheritance without regret to stay near her, entangled in her sheets and in her intrigues, adorning a white cloak that his father had called a punishment and saw as a prison. He hadn't minded, he did everything and more for love, and he had only ever felt free with a sword in his hand and with Cersei at his side, the white cloak had been a salvation. He would have served Rhaegar one day, who, as it turned out, did not end up marrying his sweet sister.

Jon Snow was training a dozen of young boys and girls a few feet away from him, his breath visible in the cold air of the courtyard, his injured shoulder still draped in thick bandages. The children's eyes were turned upward, awe painted on their features as they hungrily took his face in, listening in wonderment and drinking his words as if he had been a god. He knew that expression, he had seen it more than once directed at him, and suspected he had worn it quite a few times himself when looking upon Rhaegar, begging him to let him come with him at the Trident only to be refused and left behind to fail protecting a family that wasn't his. 'Perhaps he'd have died there if he had been allowed to follow,' he mused.

He came closer, drawing a questioning glance from the man, "Remember to use your weight," he was saying in a focused voice. Gone was the boy he had once met all those years ago, young and green and about to leave for a wall of ice that Jaime had once thought so useless, "You must become the weapon."

They nodded and picked up training swords, pairing in two to spare with each other, leaving the king he had become to finally turn his attention toward him, "Anything you need, Ser Jaime?" he asked, voice mild.

"My men should be back from Karhold in the morrow," he answered.

Jon nodded, losing his glance back toward his students, wincing a bit as a young boy with light brown hair who couldn't be older than twelve name days, clumsily dropped his sword, the weapon sinking quietly in the white snow, "They cannot be here soon enough," he observed.

"Indeed," Jaime agreed.

It had been decided a few evenings before that holding Karhold was no longer to be prioritised.

"What was the use of it then," a lord had asked, "did our men die for nothing, your Grace?"

"Buying time and preventing the Night King from adding to his army while dealing him a significant blow is not nothing, my Lord," Jon had pointed out.

"What of the Unsullied," another had questioned, "They are still safely back while we are to abandon our holds!"

"They are where we decided they should be," the strong and commending voice of Daenerys Targaryen had resounded, "You did not want them in your midst not that long ago if I recall."

He had recoiled in his seat, fidgeting nervously under the violet steadfastness of her glance, her beautiful face harsh with judgement.

"The Unsullied are protecting our main escape route by the sea," and if the king's voice had sounded conciliatory on the surface, there was an edge of warning in its depth when he spoke again, "you might be grateful for that when the time comes, my Lord."

"Of course, my King," the man had conceded, lowering his gaze.

"What will happen to the fortress?" the young and timid voice of Alys Karstark had risen in the silence, her red hair glimmering dimly under the yellow flame of the torch hung above her heard.

Jon's gaze had turned toward her, suddenly void of any hardness, "When the war is won, we will rebuilt it, you have my word," he had told her, voice tender and warm.

It had seemed to satisfy her and she had not replied, giving her king a sweet sad smile.

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," he continued solemnly, "It has to stand."

Only a silent agreement had greeted his words.

Tywin Lannister had wanted to make a lord out of him, perhaps even a king, but Jaime had always been a warrior to the bone. His body carved into a weapon through years of training, fashioned to bear steel from when he was a boy, feeling alive when breathing the dust of battlefield, the smell of blood in his nostrils as he charged into melee neither with care for safety, nor for any other duty but the one he owed to his position. He was fearless and he was strong, but he was not a king.

'Rhaegar had been a king, however, and so was Jon Snow,' he thought as he watched the man standing next to him, back upright and chin up, his long Stark face guarded as he threw calculating glances at each of his trainees. An aura of destiny was floating around him as it had his father, and Jaime wondered quietly how he had never noticed their likeness before.

"You remind me of him," he said boldly, the words escaping his lips before he had been able to think it through.

Jon's grey eyes darted toward him, brows lifting in a silent question, "Of him?"

"Of your father," Jaime replied, because frankly, it was too late to backtrack now.

The young king had a tired sigh, glance losing itself on the training children once more, "So I have been told."

"I think you misunderstood me," Jaime clarified then, "I did not mean Ned Stark, I meant Rhaegar Targaryen."

Jon's head jolted toward him, body suddenly tensed, his dark face studying him with intent, head tilted with scrutiny. He opened his mouth once, twice, thrice to speak but seemed to decide against it, his hard eyes boring at him under his furrowed eyebrows. Jaime brazenly held his gaze, practically hearing Tyrion's voice calling him a fool in his head as he did so.

"Jon!" Samwell Tarly's alarmed voice had saved him from the dragon wrath that slept within the king he was sworn to, and they both turned their eyes to the man hurrying toward them, steps made fast with urgency. He was walking past the gates, pushing Bran Stark in front of him. "Jon," he repeated as he reached them, eyes focused on his friend and voice breathless - Jaime might as well not have been here. "The Night King and his army, they are walking on Winterfell as we speak, they will arrive in the night."

The atmosphere had changed at once as his king strengthened his spine, hand clinching at his Valyrian steel in instinct, dark eyes peering at the other man in concern, "Have the council fetched," he said in an admirably controlled voice.

If they were already here then they were fucked, it seemed.

–

"Remember what you said about paying me double?" Bronn's voice had risen next to his ear, the sellsword's eyes falling on Tyrion who was standing at his side.

They were atop the walls of Winterfell, eyes focused on the distance as the white sun was slowly falling on the horizon, painting the sky a pale orange glow; it would soon start. He rubbed his remaining hand against his forearm in an attempt to unfreeze his dying fingertips, trying to find some warmth under the leather of his glove. He looked down toward the front gates where some northmen had been posted, awaiting their death and expectant of their doom.

"I do," Tyrion answered deadpan, mismatched eyes still fixated on the side of his face, Jaime could feel it burning at his skin.

"Well," Bronn continued, "I might take you up on that."

"Is that so?" Tyrion questioned, turning his glance toward the man.

"Yeah, I'm not paid enough to fight those ice fuckers, haven't signed up for that crap."

His brother had a chuckle, "Who among us has?" he questioned.

"Nobody, I figure," Bronn conceded, "but I don't fight for anything but gold and goods."

"So you keep saying," Tyrion answered, features amused, "and yet here you are."

"And yet here I am, but you still need to pay me double."

His brother turned back toward him then, face still silently laughing but eyes worried, "What is it exactly that you are paying him?" he asked.

"A castle," Jaime replied, the green of his iris finally returning him a side glance.

"I guess I'll have to find two castles then," Tyrion directed him then, gaze digging at his face and silently screaming at him not to die tonight.

He nodded slightly at the wordless request and Tyrion looked down at his feet, prodding the snow with his toe, "I think it is time for me to go and cower with the elderly and all the other cripples, now," his voice was dry with sarcasm but his face remained tense as his gaze travelled in between him and Bronn a few times over.

"You do that," the latter said, "And remember, two castles!"

The announcement had been made in a hurry as the king had stood before them, face grave and intense, his dark glance sweeping through the room and stopping on every other face. The frightened murmur that had followed the revelation had been deafening, and Jaime could have sworn that he had felt it clinch at his chest, an iron fist crushing his lungs until his breath had left them.

Brienne had departed soon after, tasked with escorting the civilians who couldn't fight away from the castle fortress. They had all been crammed in wooden food crates dragged by heavy horses with large hooves, she had not been happy about it, of course, but had obeyed her lady's command, taking Podrick with her and a small garrison of wilding men for further protection.

"My Lady," Brienne had been saying, voice ushered, looking at Sansa Stark, he had been standing a few feet away from them, awaiting to bid her his farewells, "Come with me, you are not safe here."

"I understand your worry, Brienne," the younger woman had answered, "but I swore to myself that I wouldn't leave my home again, I intend to keep that promise."

"Please," his friend had insisted in earnest, eyes scrutinising her face, "there is nothing you can do here."

"You heard Jon," the other had responded, "there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"And there are plenty of Starks here, it doesn't need to be you," Brienne had argued.

Arya Stark's glance had found his face as she walked to their side, her fist still clenching the bow she had been training young recruits with, her deep grey eyes narrowing in suspicion. She had looked so alike her brother, it had been uncanny. The girl did not like him, he knew as much, she had been the one to argue for his death upon his arrival north, had been ready to make good use of the thin blade she was constantly carrying at her hip. Her piercing gaze had observed him since then, searching his face for any signs of betrayal, but she needn't be worried, he had made a choice and with it a pledge that he had no incentive to dishonour. He had no wish to be the Kingslayer twice over after all.

"But I am the Lady of Winterfell," Sansa had argued back, her vibrant blue eyes peering at her knight, "I belong here."

Brienne had a defeated breath, turning toward Arya, "And I gather that there is no convincing you, is there?"

"None," the girl had acquiesced, her free hand finding the pommel of her sword.

"Will Jon fly?" Sansa had asked then, turning her attention toward her sister.

"No," she answered, "Daenerys managed to convince him to stay grounded, he can't hold unto that dragon with an injured shoulder, the Queen will be the one flying."

"Very well," Sansa had nodded in agreement, "for once he is being reasonable."

He had not listened to more of their conversation as Brienne had taken decided steps toward him after that, stopping awkwardly in front of him, eyes lowered to the ground. He had held unto the pommel of Widow's Wail, sorting through his hustled thoughts with difficulty; he would miss her more than he cared to admit and if this was to be the last time he'd see her, he'd make the most of it.

"I guess this is goodbye," she had said in an oddly small voice.

Without thinking, he had taken one of her hands in his, entangling their fingers, drawing her gaze toward his face; her eyes were beautiful, he had suddenly noticed, wide and blue, with the kind of warmth seldom found in anyone.

"I suppose that it is so," he had replied, voice clumsy, suddenly feeling much younger than he actually was.

"I wish I could fight here," Brienne confided then, gazing away from him to look at Sansa, still engaged in deep conversation.

"I know," Jaime had replied, squeezing her calloused hand in his, "but the King is right, we do not need all competent swordsmen and potential generals to die in a single battle."

She hadn't replied, locking her gaze on his face instead. His green eyes had travelled on her features; where Cersei had been beautiful with cutting edges and blood red mouth, Brienne was all high chiselled cheekbones, full lips and noble brow, looking like a statue from times long passed. She was made as if carved by a long forgotten master of the craft, dexterous hands leaving a mark upon the world to admire for generations to come. 'She would have made a fine model,' he had caught himself thinking.

"It is nice to be fighting on the same side," she had said then, tearing him away from his thoughts, and the tenderness of her voice had made a lump take seat in his already too dry throat, "I have been meaning to tell you, my Lord: I am glad you came here."

"And I am glad that you talked me into it."

They had exchanged a smile after that, falling into silence as he escorted her to the gates; her squire was waiting there, the reins of two horses in hand, ready for them to depart.

"The Kingslayer," a guard had whispered in their wake as they passed.

"I don't know why the Starks trust him," another had sneered in response.

He had paid them no mind, his thoughts lost in the moment, no stranger that he was to those chatters since that fateful day, and far too used to them to care. But Brienne hadn't been so civil, stopping in her tracks, she had eagerly turned toward them, her blue eyes suddenly icy, "Jaime," she had said, echoing long forgotten words he had once muttered at her in a warm bath, "his name is Jaime."

He had felt his heart skip a beat at that, but before he had been able to ponder the meaning of it, she had mounted her horse and waved him goodbye, leaving him behind to wonder if he'd ever look upon her face again.

–

The metallic taste of blood was rasping at his throat and rolling on his tongue, sweet as honey and strong as ale, making him feel drunk all the same. The deafening chaos resounded in his ears as he looked around, Widow's Wail in hand, jumping aside to avoid a dead horse falling dully in the soft bloodied snow. Part of Winterfell was now gone, a hill of grey rock piling where a tower had once stood, he had lost Bronn in the turmoil when it had fallen, disappearing amidst a crowd of wights encircling them from behind.

"Leave!" his friend had yelled at him, yielding a newly forged dragonglass sword.

Jaime had been about to protest when it had hit the ground in a terrifying thunder of a noise, forcing them apart. He had not seen him since, eyes drawn to the Queen as she had come to his rescue, the fiery breath of her dragon burning the corpses about to claim him as their own. 'Was he buried under the wreck of the ruin?' he had wondered to himself. But the mess of the battle raging around him hadn't given him the luxury of answering his silent question, slicing through dead bodies and cutting through rotting flesh, restless and ferocious, breathing hard through his nostrils and roaring in between his gritted teeth. He felt alive.

His mind wandered to Cersei in King's Landing, pondering quietly if her belly had yet grown round, would he ever meet his fourth child? Would he ever be the father he never was for Joffrey, Tommen or Myrcella? Probably not, he decided. Cersei had most likely stopped loving him the moment he had walked away and stopped being an extension of her, no longer twisting in her schemes and games and finally becoming more. He sliced through bodies, never stopping, making his way through the centre of the battlefield, adrenaline pumping in his veins.

There was less and less of them coming now, the Queen was flying overhead, raining flames on the ice swords attacking them, commanding two dragons and an army of Dothrakis who had fought bravely in the front line. She had done most of the heavy lifting, and when his eyes had found any living soldier amidst the tumult of fighting cries, more than half the time they had looked upon the dark sky, as if sharing a prayer. One that they had sent her way, thanking the silver queen for the life that they were still holding on to.

His eyes found the king in the crowd a few moments later; he had ripped his bandage off, baring his reopening wound , his white direwolf rampaging at his side, he was swinging his Valyrian sword from the top of a black horse that Jaime did not recognise as his. He was still alive and did not stay behind. The animal suddenly stumbled on his hooves, hit in the flank by an ice spear that came out on the other side, and Jon jumped to the ground, leaving the dead animal behind, hand gripping at his pommel tighter as he stood on his feet, his blade piercing and swinging as he danced around the enemy with the ease and elegance of a born killer.

"Over here!" He yelled at his men.

And somehow they had all moved as one, holding in line behind him with a new found courage, and Jaime watched as Arya Stark stood in front of her brother, eyes hungrily taking his face in, relief plastered all over her features. She brandished her Valyrian dagger just as he returned her a similar glance, stabbing through the throat of a wight that had crept up behind him, and Jon had swung forward, raising his sword in turn, forcing Arya to duck to avoid the sway of his blade, beheading the dead man that had hovered at her back.

It was almost over now.

Less and less of them where coming in, and the Queen flew lower, eyes searching the crowd, yelling orders in a language he could not understand, the Dothrakis had ran ahead at that, away from the fortress, their long braids floating in the wind, chasing after the remains of the army that they had just beaten. Some were now on foot, others still on horseback, ignoring the corpses of their fallen comrades that lay in the ice of winter.

'How was it possible? How could they have won?' Jaime wondered as the deadly calm of a quietening battle set upon them all; the snow, drenched red with too much blood and melting under the heat of dagonfire, felt sloppy under their steps. 'There should have been more of them,' he thought forcefully, searching the sky for an undead dragon that had never shown up.

The last wave entered the castle gates they had retreated in, the wights were wearing thick black cloaks this time, and Jaime had observed as Jon had lowered his sword, eyes growing wide with horror. The one leading them was slightly shorter than the king, eyes blued and body made rigid with death, he had brown straight hair reaching his shoulder-blades, a trimmed beard ghosting on his jawline, he couldn't have been dead for long.

"No," Jon had whispered, and his voice was so distressed, everybody had tensed around him.

The corpse lurched toward his unresponsive frame, surreal blue lips letting out a screaming howl.

"Jon!" Samwell Tarly had shot, rising his sword to cut through one of them as the fighting resumed, "It isn't them anymore, it isn't Edd!"

The voice had seemed to jostle the king out of his trance; he held Longclaw upright and drove the blade through the heart of the dead man. The body fell on the ground like a light leave, as if he had been bowed at his feet, and Jon knelt in the snow in front of him, turning the corpse to face skyward. He rested a hand on his chest where a heart had once beaten, his haunted eyes searching the dead face, their grey gleaming with held in tears.

Arya came to kneel beside him, dropping both of her blades on the iced ground, placing her small hand on top of his. He glanced at her then, determined fury lain deep in his pupils, and Jaime watched as her other arm had come to cradle his head against her chest, fingers soothing through the dark bloodied curls.

He had looked away, it was over.

–

The fire was crackling, big and wide and warm, a light in the darkness of night warming his body to the bone.

He had found Bronn earlier, walking through the battlefield as a wandering ghost, gathering the bodies of the fallen, a few highborns faces, such as Lord Glover's, lost amidst the anonymous cadavers littering the crimson field. Bronn had looked strange in death, with nothing snarky coming out of his now unmoving lips. His face was grey and his dark eyes unseeing, face bluing slightly under the rigid cold. A gash had split his head in two it had seemed, and Jaime had strangled a sob.

'I still owe you a castle,' he had thought fiercely, 'You were not allowed to die until I paid my debts. Lannisters always pay their debts.'

He had burned his body in solitude, his brother for only company. They had been close to the sacred gods wood that had somehow been left untouched, Tyrion had been standing at his side, silent salty tears washing over his cheeks.

"There should have been more of them," his brother had stated the obvious as if thinking aloud.

"I know," Jaime had answered, the green of his glance never leaving his friend as his body burned away never to be seen again.

"Why wasn't he here? Why wasn't the undead dragon here?" Tyrion's rhetorical question had slashed in the icy air in between them, eyes searching his face thoughtfully.

"He probably went straight to the south," Jaime replied, "Sent the bunch that slaughtered us as distraction and bypassed our defences, it is what I would have done."

It was the smartest thing to do after all, the southerners would be unprepared to bear the kind of winter the White Walkers would bring, the Starks were always right eventually. Jaime thought of Cersei alone in her red tower and pregnant with a child he probably would never know. How foolish would she look when the dead army would arrive at her door, knocking without invitation and taking as prisoners only the dead. She thought herself smarter than she was indeed, their father had always insisted so, and for long he had been blind to her false confidence, he no longer was now. He thought of Brienne after that, alone on a king's road with a small army of men at her back, escorting useless civilians who were either too old, too young or too sick to even yield a dagger with success. What where her chances of survival now that a king made of ice was trailing in her wake? Not very high he knew, and his eyes fell on Bronn once more, dead face burning away under a sea of stars, he would not dare to hope.

'I should have kissed her when I had the chance,' the wild thought had invaded his brain without warning, 'just to let her know what it feels like,' he added to himself, hiding whatever it was that he wanted from her under a thick layer of denial. It was too late now anyway.

He had picked up his ashes once the pyre had dimmed, tucking them safely inside the small leather bag he used to carry his gold in, 'Lannisters always pay their debts," he thought again, Bronn would get to be in his castle, he had sworn to himself there and then.

They had made their way back to Winterfell after that, the fortress was injured but still upright. Jon Snow was standing in the centre of the courtyard, eyes fixated on the black cloaks that were lain at his feet, his siblings frames gathered around him; the fire was crackling, big and wide and warm, a bright light in the darkness of death. His grey eyes, angered with resolve, still did not cry.

Samwell Tarly had made his way to him in silence and squeezed his unhurt shoulder in shared pain, reciting a long forgotten prayer, his voice echoing against the old stones: "Night gathers and now my watch begins, it shall not end until my death, I shall live and die at my post."

"I am the sword in the darkness," they had continued in unison, "the watcher on the walls, the shield that guards the realm of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch for this night and all nights to come."

The silence that had followed their words had been deafening as the remains of an old sacred order had burned away, disappearing before their eyes, names to be forgotten in the windings of history.

"And now, their watch is ended," Jon finished, voice soft with regrets as his eyes never left his once sworn brothers. Nobody could look away, the Night's Watch was no more.

It was then that the Dragon Queen had arrived, looking ethereal and beautiful with her pale unblemished skin shining white under the black starry sky, she had made her way to him in turn, the crowd parting in her wake, making a path for the saviour of Winterfell.

She stood in front of him, hand lifting to his jaw and gliding over his injury, her purple iris finding his eyes with so much tenderness and intimacy, Jaime had felt the urge to look away. " _Issa jorrāelagon,"_ she had said, tongue curling sweetly around the foreign words, relief palpable in her accent, " _ānogar hen issa ānogar._ "

Tywin had wanted to make a monarch out of him once, but he was a soldier made for the dust of erupting battlefields. Rhaegar had been cast in the mould of kings however, just as his sister was. Daenerys Targaryen was a queen from the end of her silvery mane to the tip of the soft fingers currently travelling down Jon's arm to clasp his hand. She gave him one last intense and loving glance before she turned away, and they both started to walk side by side. The white direwolf, fur slightly pink with blood, following in their trail.

The lords had parted again, head lowered in respect, as they took the path made for them through the crowd of survivors, disappearing behind the castle's door.

'The North only ever bowed to the dragons,' Lord Manderly, now dead and burned, had said a few days back, "and as it appears, they are back.'

* * *

 _AN: Posting a day later as I have been travelling to another country. I should still be able to mostly post on time, even tho I'll be gone for three weeks, but in case I'm not able to update on time though, you'll know why. I'll see you next time with Dany, I hope this chapter was worth the wait, and thank you again to all the followers / commentators / those who still like and follow my story after all this time, it really gives me motivation to continue._


	11. Daenerys (II)

**11- Daenerys (II)**

–

There was a house with a red door in Braavos, a lemon tree burgeoning under an open window, stone bridges running over streets made of water canals, where purple-hulled boats slept quietly. It was a blue lagoon, foaming with rays of light that pierced through clouds of fog, a free city smelling like open sea and the husked scent of pine trees growing wild over green slopes of land.

There was a house with a red door in Braavos where she had once felt at home; painting her memories with the rare bright smile of Ser Willem Darry, the colourful aroma of freshly plucked flowers, or the soothing feeling of cotton sheets that she would tuck herself under, in the chill of the shimmering night sky.

Jon's fingers where clasping at her hand as they walked through the deadly silence of Winterfell's stairways, strong and calloused from years of fighting in the frosty Northern land beyond an icy wall. She let go of him as she closed the door of her chambers behind them, leaving Ghost's red gaze to guard at the door. He stood in the middle of the room, back rigid and grey eyes lost through her window, haunted pupils turned upward toward a pale moon floating in the dark sky, its soft light framing his head like a fading halo.

She came closer, rising a palm to his bloodied battle-worn jaw, stroking his beard lightly to draw his tender glance toward hers. Her hand glided down to his shoulder, hovering over his open wound, he winced at the contact but did not look away, staring into her eyes with the intensity of a man in love and in pain all at once. She felt her heart beat ferociously in her throat and the need to press herself against his skin, to lose herself in the fold of his arms until the world would forget about their existence, until they would only live in each other's embrace.

" _Ñuha jorrāelagon_ ," she let out in a barely audible breath as her hand came to undo the clasps of his armour.

She undressed him softly, delicate hands working on his bruised body with care, until the muscles of his scarred chest were left exposed; he never looked away from her face, his dark eyes burning with need. She twined her fingers with his once more, leading him to the fireplace where a bucket of cold water was waiting, and plunging a clean cloth in it, she washed the blood, sweat and dust off of his face with soap. She worked, slow and deliberate, her pupils locked with his - 'Love comes in the eyes, Khaleesi,' she heard Doreah's voice call in her head as distant as a whisper.

"Dany," he said quietly when she gestured to bathe his chest.

He caught her wrist gently as she was about to clean his wound, pulling her in his warmth. She shivered, letting relief wash over her as she listened to his heart beating, fierce and strong, under the rough crescent moon spread over his chest.

"Are you cold?" he asked against her ear, tone worried.

"A little," she responded, turning in his embrace to go revive the dead fire that had crackled in the chimney just a few hours ago.

But his arms held her back, pressing her spine against his naked torso. Gentle but firm hands palming over her still flat belly, "Dany," he questioned, fear laid in the depth of his low voice, "Is the..."

"It is fine," she reassured him, "We are fine."

Daenerys had carried death once, a life time ago it seemed to her, had felt it in the depth of her guts as it had happened; her Rhaego had died in her womb as she had been helpless to save him, blood running down her legs and water breaking too soon, 'Only death can pay for life,' she had been told then, and she suddenly thought of Viserion, her sweet child falling hard from the white winter sky and sinking under an iced lake, amber eyes closing to never open the same again. She was not carrying death now.

He pressed her harder against him, trailing sultry kisses on the back of her neck and down to her shoulder, his tongue travelling to her collarbone making her whimper and throw her head back as he bit at her skin. He let out a demanding growl, his hardness pressed on the small of her back, need pooling in her core at the feeling of it, and she turned her head toward his to taste the salt on his lips, desperate for more of his skin on her.

"Jon..." she hissed as a rough hand had come to cup one of her breast, setting her skin aflame with desire. It had almost sounded pleading.

She took his other hand in hers and sucked at his fingers, drawing a wild hum from his lips as she felt him hungrily stare over her shoulder. She needed... she wanted... she slid the hand down her sensitive body and up her skirt to find her wet womanhood under the layers of clothing, squeezing her eyes shut and breathing heavy at the friction of his fingertips on her.

"Fuck," he swore, his voice but a messy rasp.

And needing no further invitation, he disrobed her quickly, her under garments following in its wake, half ripping them away to lie her body bare. She grabbed at his pants without turning, an urgent need to touch him overpowering her as he walked her to the desk, the curl of his tongue tickling at the top of her shivering back. He bent her gently against the polished wood, his breath warm and fast against the nap of her neck, her hair cascading down her side as a silver waterfall. She heard the click of his belt behind her, sending a jolt of anticipation through her spine, before feeling him hot and hard against her entrance.

"I want you," he grunted in her ear, marking her with blood and sweat as his unhurt arm came to cradle her stomach, lifting her slightly in his embrace to nestle her arching back against the warmth of his chest.

"Take me," she answered, need almost painful in her loins.

And so he had; loving her with his every thrust of his pelvis, her body crashing around him in waves of pleasure, wrecking inside of her at every meeting of their hips, and she lost herself in him, his scent, the feeling of his skin and the sound of his fervent breathing against the crook of her neck, feeling her body burn as they came as one.

" _Avy jorrāelan_ ," she whispered again and again in her mother tongue until they collapsed from their high. _I love you_. They were both alive.

Hours later, they had found themselves tangled in the sheets of her bed, cleaned of blood and dirt but still coated in the sweat of their lovemaking. She had had him once more that night as they had fallen into bed, his nude body covering her frame and his lips hungrily finding hers. The kiss had been long and slow, open mouths and dancing tongues, until it broke in hard rugged gasps for air. His lips had not left her after that, earnestly marking a path down her skin until they had come to taste the need soaking her centre. She had thrown her head backwards, letting out an incoherent tide of moaning sounds at the feeling of his tongue working her towards her edge, his strong palms keeping her hips grounded to the bed and her hand clenching a fistful of his dark hair. He had laughed against her, his low voice inviting goose bumps on her already flaming skin, and she had flipped them over in sudden impatience, wanting to touch him in turn.

"You are so..." he had started, looking up at her with awestruck eyes as she had sat up, straddling his tights in between her parted legs.

But his voice had strangled in a carnal seethe as her hand had closed around his thick, heavy length, his grey eyes rolling backwards and his beautiful features twisting with each stroke of her palm.

"Dany," he had growled sitting up in turn to steal a taste of her hard nipple, harsh and eager fingers gripping at her waist and pressing it against him in obvious demand.

She had needed no other request; and careful not to grasp too hard at his injured shoulder, she had sunk on him with a sweet cry of relief. 'The feeling of him is everything,' she had thought as she rocked against his hip, relishing at the sound of the urgent pants escaping from his lips, ' _Issa ñuha vys.'_

"Why did you join the Night's Watch," she was now asking him, her body tucked against his side, his hand stroking softly up and down her naked spine.

Eddison Tollet had been his brother, Jon had told her a few seconds ago, his voice hoarse from a tightened throat, one of the closest friends he had made at the Wall, he owed his life to his loyalty and he had to put a sword through his heart in return.

He didn't answer her question for a while, his glance losing itself on the ceiling as his arm pulled her in a closer embrace, "I wanted to be something," he finally said, "growing up, I hated my name, or rather my lack of a true-born name. Nobody ever let me forget it, Lady Catelyn the least of them all. I wanted to prove myself."

She looked up to study his face, her eyebrows furrowing at the implication of his words, "Your siblings seem to love you," she had pointed out, her voice curling in a question.

"Aye, they do" he nodded, "They did, Bran and Robb and Arya... especially Arya, I knew she would always accept me no matter what, and my father..." his voice broke, features suddenly closing off, and she looked away, tracing the outline of the scars littering his abdomen.

She pictured him as a small boy, a dark mop of messy curls falling on an already guarded and sullen face, loved by a family and yet confined at its edge. She had felt the urge to hug that boy, to nest him in the warmth of her arms and to tell him that he wasn't alone, that neither of them was for as long as the other existed somewhere.

"Growing up," she told him then, her voice but a pensive murmur, "all I had was my name, and with it my claim."

Robert Baratheon had taken everything from her, she had had no family, no wealth, no security and no home, he had left her nothing but a brother who had sold her to the highest bidder as soon as it had become convenient, but he hadn't been able to take away her name. It was strange to think of it now, to think of Ned Stark, the man who had once stood by and helped forcing her family into exile; this same man had also taken a Targaryen child in, hidden him in plain sight and, as odd as it still seemed to her at time, had loved him as his own, giving him back everything that they had lost but stripping him of his name and birthright in return.

His eyes fell on her face, head titling slightly, "I wish I had been there," he said, features etching in a thoughtful and pained expression, "I can't stand the thought of you being so alone."

She breathed hard, resting her head against his chest to listen to the beating of his heart. She was not alone now.

"What was he like?" he asked suddenly, just as she felt him gaze away.

"Who?" she questioned, her attention turned towards her fingers absently playing with the hard muscles of his bared stomach.

"Rhaegar Targaryen."

Her head snapped up toward him, eyes widening slightly under the shock as his words resounded in the silence. It was the first time he had spoken the name out loud that she knew of.

"I..." she hesitated then, choosing her words with the utmost care, "I never knew him but... but I was told that he was good and kind and just."

"And he disowned his first children for my sake," Jon finished, voice harsh with judgement and hand snaking around her hip to find the flat of her belly, "no child deserves such a life, I know as much." Evidently, he had done some thinking of his own.

She crawled up a bit, pressing her forehead against his, and placed a soft kiss on his lips in an attempt to soothe away his pain - it was a rare sight, seeing him so vulnerable. "I do not know what his intentions were, Jon, but I do know that it would have been easy for him to legitimise them again once he would have sat on the throne."

She plunged her violet iris in the grey of his stare and continued: "He wasn't perfect, he made mistakes, but he was brave, he was just and he was kind. The people loved him and they believed in him." 'Just as people believe in you' was left unsaid, "I have been told as much by many that I have no reason to distrust," she finished in a breath.

She lovingly stroked at his chin, thumb flickering over his full bottom lip, 'and he gave me you,' she thought with force, her heart banging hard and erratic against her rib-cage.

"And he loved to sing," she said instead, her voice low with secrecy as she whispered the words in his ear, "he used to play the harp."

The ghost of a fleeting smile had welcomed her confession.

–

 _"I do not want to be his queen, I want to go home."_

She remembered speaking those words to Viserys once, with the sun of Pentos tingling at her skin and sneaking under the too thin dress he had dressed her up in.

" _So tell me, sweet sister,_ " he had responded, the accent of his voice making her feel small and young, " _how do we go home?_ "

Viserys had been her brother and he had been her king, but Viserys had failed at both; he had been unworthy of the crown, unworthy of their name, and he had died a fool by the hand of a Khal he had once sold her to.

 _How do we go home_ , the question resounded in her ears as she made her way back toward Winterfell where dinner would soon start, passing through her Khalasar in dignified silence, her men parting in her wake. ' _With an army_ ' had been her brother's answer at the time.

Winter hadn't been kind toward her fierce horse lords, she knew; they were of the vast and arid plains of Essos where even the nights were warm, the air left hot and thick from the burning daylight reflecting against a too dry soil. Not all of them had survived the biting cold of the north, but most had stood bravely indeed, and had fought in turn to die in battle or to live another day. To perish another time.

Her thick fur coat left a trail in the snow as she walked among them, Ghost's silent frame accompanying her steps, and she could still smell the scent of ashes floating in the cold wind, lingering from the night before where large funeral pyres had burnt bright. She had lightened the wood that her fallen bloodriders had been lain upon with Drogon's fiery breath, setting their soul free to join the Great Stallion in the Night Lands. Those who remained were readying to leave in the morrow, just as she had told them to, saddling their horses and burying themselves under layers upon layers of clothing. They would be riding for the south, it had been decided.

Ravens had been sent in the first hours of the day, some carriers of grief, others carriers of hope; one of them was to Theon and Yara Greyjoy at White Harbor, telling them to stay put with their ship ready to take sea, an army would come their way soon enough. Another was to Jorah Mormont in the Reach, 'If you manage to convince the men of the Golden Company to fight for the living,' it said, 'you need to march them to the Neck and cover the exit route down there.'

"Leaving Winterfell, your Grace?" Lord Cerwyn had asked as the announcement had just been made that morning, his worried eyes fixated on his king, one of his legs restricted under heavy bandages.

"Aye, my Lord," Jon had answered, holding his gaze, "We cannot allow the Others to march south unchallenged and trap us here, we have to move our men and we need to do it fast."

"But how," Lady Lyanna Mormont had questioned him then, "pardon me, your Grace, but we are already behind."

"I know," he had said, tone suddenly tired, "that is why our hope is the sea," his eyes had swept at the room before finding her face next to him, as if to draw from her strength, "If we can go around them, we might have a chance."

"I will tell my men to ride south," Daenerys had addressed the room after that, tangling her fingers with his, "you shall do the same, so we might depart together."

Only a silent and respectful agreement had greeted her words.

"He likes you," Arya Stark's voice had risen behind her as she passed the castle's heavy gates, taking her out of her thoughts at once.

Daenerys stopped in her tracks and spun around to face her, just in time to see her give Ghost - ever towering at her side - a small gesture of her head; the younger woman was carrying both of her usual blades at her hip, hands clasped behind her back and lips pressed in a thin smile.

"I suppose he does," she answered, placing an absent hand over her belly.

Arya closed the distance in between them, leaving Gendry behind as she advanced, and Daenerys returned her smile.

It had been easy to like Jon's younger sister, with her strong and untamed spirit, guarding her brother with the fierce love and loyalty of a she-wolf looking after her pack. It had been simple indeed, when the glance she gave back was of the same grey as the one to be found in Jon's eyes. She thought of Viserys again while looking into their depth; he had been a sorry excuse for a brother, a weak fool unwilling to look over her, she knew as much now. How could he have protected a kingdom after that? He would have made for a poor mockery of a king in turn.

"How are the dragons?" Arya questioned.

"Rhaegal is healing fast, Drogon is well, but they are both grieving still" 'Just as I am,' she thought quietly, anguish clasping at her stomach.

They had marched in silence after that, walking side by side toward the castle where both of them split, it was time to prepare for dinner.

A fire was crackling in the fireplace when she entered her chambers, warm flickering shadows glowing under its orange flames. The door creaked slightly against the silence when she pushed it open, and she felt her stomach leap strangely when her eyes found him. Jon was sitting by her window, facing the wooden desk where he had made love to her just the night before, his comely face framed with the gleam of a single candlelight, hot wax melting slowly on the slick dark wood. He was waiting for her, it seemed.

"Hi," he said, his face turning toward her, wistful glance softening as it fell on her.

"Hi," she responded, watching as he got on his feet to meet her halfway through the room, "I haven't seen a lot of you since the morning."

His unhurt arm came to curve around her waist, pulling her against his strong chest, firm grip squeezing her so tightly, she could feel the hard thin muscles through the linen of the simple chemise he was wearing. She inhaled sharply, taking the fragrance of his hot skin and the feel of his hands holding her close in, as he placed a velvet kiss at the top of her head.

"I'm sorry," he said then, his voice almost a whisper against her forehead, lips bushing at her hairline as he spoke, "I had a lot to think about."

"Did you?" she asked, her voice warming as she closed her eyes, relaxing in the comfort of his embrace.

"Aye," he confirmed, "But first, how are you?"

He parted from her slightly, grey eyes peering at her face under knitting eyebrows and hand palming at her belly.

She smiled at him, big and wide and toothy, unable to help the joy swelling in her chest, "We are fine, Jon, the same as yesterday."

Sometimes, it still felt surreal to her; this small sparkle of life that had lightened inside of her, a glimmer created in the darkest of nights after she had given up all hopes. But she was no stranger to fire, had started many, and now here she was once more, her eyes plunged in the dark iris of a man she loved more than she could say, a kin that she had found against all odds at the edge of the world, telling him of the child that was growing in her womb.

He smiled back at her, his features painted with a torrent of rushed emotions, and he opened his mouth a few times over, as if searching for his words, "I have a gift for you," he finally said, tone low and soft. She watched as he went to retrieve something from a small leather bag sitting at the foot of the bed, presenting it to her on the flat of his open palm: a small winter flower was resting there, blue and beautiful, filling the air with the barest hint of a sweet perfume.

"Jon, I..." she started, tenderness spilling on her voice.

"Marry me tomorrow?"

The sudden request had taken her breath away; blood rushing in her ears and heart slamming in her throat, she had torn her eyes away from the token to look up toward his face, her mouth opening slightly under the shock. Strands of black curls were falling over his nervous gaze, eyes shining with a kind of boyish hope she had never seen in him before.

"Dany," he asked again, planting the flower in her hair, fingers brushing gently against the skin of her cheek, "We will be leaving Winterfell soon, marry me tomorrow, marry me under the Weirwood tree in the Godswood."

 _How do we go home?_ There was a house with a red door in Braavos, a lemon tree growing under an open window where she could picture him standing bright and steady under a cloud of fog. His grey eyes were the sea crashing against the violet of her stare, building a stone bridge from the edges of the world, their tangling bodies meeting in the middle at last. _How do we go home?_ The phase echoed in her head as a forgotten song. She had searched for the answer at the top of a silver horse galloping after a Khal she had learned to love, had looked for its ghost in the relieved smiles of freed slaves enjoying the lives that had been stolen from them at last, she had tried to find it in the western land of her birth, in the golden glow of a crown, the duty of a title, and in a throne made of iron forged in the flaming breath of dragons - so alike those she was the mother of.

 _'I do not want to be his queen, I want to go home.'_

"I never thought I would have this," Jon pressed on, tone slightly hesitant, "and I had given up on it fully when I left for the Wall, but now..."

She threw herself into his arms, cutting his breath in turn, suddenly feeling as light as a feather, "Blood of my blood," she whispered against the crook of his neck.

She had looked for somewhere to belong in all the wrong places; she had hunted and sought until she had been rendered breathless. A sister, a wife, a mother, a queen... running forward in pursuit of a restless quest for family and home... in search of a long lost dream.

After all this time, it had found her.

–

Daenerys was standing in the crypts of Winterfell, her thoughtful glance locked on her unmoving face; Lyanna Stark was looking still and solemn on her altar of stone. She had been mother to a dragon as well, the princess of Dragonstone, the untamed wolf her brother had loved a bit too hard and a torn a kingdom asunder for. She wasn't sure she could blame him any longer, wouldn't she do the same for her love? She was fire made flesh, she couldn't promise that she wouldn't, not even to herself. The wild thought had filled her with hope and dread all at once, her heart beating slightly faster in her chest as it had invaded her brain.

She placed a kiss on the tip of her fingers, laying it on the cold stones hovering over her frame, eyebrows furrowed and heart fastening as she did so.

"Your Grace," Missandei's voice had called behind her, interrupting her reflection, "It is time."

"I will be a minute," she had answered without looking back.

She plucked the blue flower that had been pinned in her hair and placed it at the foot of Lyanna's statue, closing her eyes and contemplating her thoughts with care, 'I will look after him,' she had sworn in her head then, 'you have my word.'

She turned away after that, strengthening her spine and taking a deep breath, the echoes of her steps resounding in the silence as she joined Missandei at the end of the cold room where the dead slept.

"Are you nervous?" Daenerys asked her friend as they walked out side by side.

Missandei had a small chuckle, rolling off her lips like the tinkle of a bell, "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?"

Daenerys did not answer, adjusting the thick wedding cape that Sansa Stark had laid upon her shoulders a couple of hours back, "I had this made for you," the lady had said then, eyes fixated on her, "I'm afraid it is nothing too fancy given the restricted time frame, but..."

"It is perfect," Daenery had cut her off, offering her a bright smile as her fingers had brushed over the silver embroideries, "thank you."

The outside air was freezing but the sky was clear, countless of gleaming stars accompanying her walk toward a Godswood and an old Weirwood tree where her future was waiting. She paused for a few seconds, watching as the light of the torches marking her path shone bright in the distance, and Missandei gave her a small squeeze of her hand, encouraging her to go on. And so she did, feeling her heart swell in her chest, ever larger at each of the steps bringing her closer. Her heart skipped a beat when her gaze found his face in front of the white trunk. Red flames were dancing in his eyes, the grey of his iris melting under the heat of a thousand of emotions that he could not quite contain; and she stopped to breath, unable to look away, barely noticing the small gathering of guests that surrounded them. She recognised none of their faces, his was the only one she saw.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Sansa asked, taking a step toward her.

"Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Tagaryen" Missandei started as had been rehearsed, "The first of her name. The Unburnt. Queen of the Andals, The Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, the Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. She comes to ask for the blessing of the Gods," she finished, "Who comes to claim her?"

Daenerys inhaled, searching for the breath that had left her, heart in her throat and glance never leaving his face. He took a step in turn, Ghost trailing behind him, his voice slightly strangling as he spoke: "Jon of House St..." he said softly, and she watched as his gaze fell on the ground, balancing his weight on each of his feet, as if suddenly uncomfortable.

She felt her heart race wildly at that, threatening to break away, but when his glance lifted again to find the violet of her eyes, they had been burning with a new kind of determination, "Jon of House Stark," he repeated once more as if abruptly making a choice, voice newly assured and shoulders squaring, "and of House Targaryen, The King in the North."

A charged silence greeted his words as he marked a pause, his heated pupils peering at her, "Who gives her?" he finished in a breath.

And she stood upright, holding his burning stare with all the intensity she had to offer, he was beautiful under the light of the moon, "Missandei from the island of Naath," the voice rose next to her ear, "her most trusted adviser and closest friend."

"Queen Daenerys, will you take this man?" Sansa asked then.

She took a step toward him, back and chin held high, "I'll take this man."

"King Jon, will you take this woman?"

 _'A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness... mother of dragons... bride of fire...'_

His eyes had not once left her when he answered, grabbing her arm and pulling her in his embrace with urgency, lips brushing against hers, "Yes."

–

They had retired from the banquet early; leaving to the sound of Davos' laughter as Tormund took Missandei to dance.

"Do not leave for too long," Tyrion asked, eyebrows furrowing.

"We won't," Jon reassured him, "We know the war won't wait."

"We will only be absent for a few hours," she agreed, taking his hand in hers.

And so they had gone, fingers entangled and bodies crashing in messy kisses, stumbling upon their steps until they found themselves outside the castle gates. They were draped in each other's arms, her hands digging in his hair, their eyes finding the stars, and for the space of one moment, she felt young and carefree again.

"Dany," he started, plunging his dark glance in hers, hands clasped behind her lower back, "I..."

But he hadn't been able to finish as two loud bangs resounded behind them, making the snowed ground tremble under their feet; her children had landed, awaiting their riders.

 _'Three mounts must you ride... one to bed, one to dread and one to love...''_

Daenerys smiled at him, placing a soft kiss on the knuckles of his hand. ' _One to love,'_ she thought as she started walking toward the dragons, dragging him behind her.

She was home.

* * *

 _AN: This probably the cheesiest, fluffiest thing I have written in a long while... but I guess everybody needs fluff once in a while, and this is probably a welcome reprieve from what came before and what's to come next. Incidentally, it also ended up being more steamy than originally intended... oh well... thank you you a lot if you're still reading or commenting this story, as usual, and I'll see you next time (though like last week, I can't promise it'll be there on time as I'm still travelling)._


	12. Sansa (II)

**12- Sansa (II)**

–

Winterfell was restless. Cold winds carrying the noise of hustled steps, the clangour of training swords and the rushed sound of worried voices as they traveled through the fortress corridors. She had been just a child the last time the castle had been so busy with the noises of imminent departure, and Sansa rubbed at the bridge of her nose in fatigue, feeling the hammering pain of a headache creeping behind her eyes and pounding in her ears in rhythm.

Lord Cerwyn was standing at her side, his slander frame lying heavily on a makeshift cane, their gazes focusing on the carts that would make up the supply line following the army south.

"Are those the only ones we have left?" she asked, voice tired.

"Afraid so, my Lady," he answered, offering her a contrite smile.

She stayed silent, adjusting the furs draped around her shivering shoulders, eyes trailing toward the already darkening skyline; it hadn't stopped snowing once that day. After all those years, it was strange to remember the time she had followed her father south. She had never been more delighted at anything else before at the time, young and naive and only three and ten, she could recall sewing dresses in the fashion of warmer lands and wondering what it would be like to marry a prince, to be called a queen one day, she was not excited now.

"My Lady?" Lord Cerwyn insisted, tearing her out of her thoughts, his young face contorting in a question.

"I need to talk to Jon about this," she finally responded, her words dying in a heavy sigh and her mind wandering to Brienne, her faithful knight who had left a few nights before, escorting civilians to what they had thought would be the relative safety of White Harbour at the time, "meanwhile, we need to have those filled to full capacity."

"Of course, my Lady."

She gave him one last look as he bowed in respect, limping away to meet the men that had been at work since the morrow, and then she turned on her feet, walking back toward the fortress' walls, her hearing absently focusing on the snow faintly cracking under her feet - it had covered the muddied and bloody battleground rather quickly indeed.

"My Lady," a guard curtsied as she passed the door, ushering her inside.

She gave him a greeting nod, "Have you seen the King?"

"In the Queen's chamber," the caustic voice of Tyrion Lannister resounded to her right, "But I'm afraid he is busy."

"Busy?" she asked turning to face him, a slight smile stretching on her lips as she met his eyes. Tyrion returned her smile but did not answer, taking assured steps toward her to walk at her side. "Is it so bad that it requires you to escort me there, my Lord?" Sansa questioned once more, eyebrows quirking.

Tyrion had a dry chuckle, "It is the scariest thing of them all: a lovers' quarrel."

She had a heartfelt laugh at that, shooting him an amused glance, "I think I can handle that."

"Can you?" he asked, brows furrowed in mock concern, failing at entirely hiding the true worry laying underneath his mask of wits, "It's a married lovers' quarrel we are speaking of, Lady Sansa, I wouldn't want to see you caught in the crossfire."

"Rest reassured, my Lord," she replied, "I have dealt with far worse"

"I know you have," he said, the tone of his voice suddenly void of any humor, and she glanced toward him once more, briefly meeting his remorseful eyes.

He would always be one of the witnesses to her first travel southwards, one who had looked upon the childish foolishness she had once been warped in, too blind to see and too naive to know, a stupid girl unaware of where she belonged, of where she had always belonged.

He cleared his throat and looked away, suddenly awkward, "I gather that you must not be looking forward to journeying south once more, my Lady?"

The question was rhetorical of course, and so she stayed silent, wordlessly walking alongside him until they reached the end of the long corridor leading to Daenerys Targaryen's chamber.

"I think this is where I leave you to your fate," he said, head lifting toward her to meet the blue of her gaze.

She had a sad smile, "Thank you for escorting me, my Lord," she replied in a sincere voice, maintaining the eye contact for a few seconds before walking away, "It was very gallant of you."

Sansa felt the warmth of his stare digging at her shoulder-blades until she disappeared from his view, walking toward to the locked door that held her brother and his queen inside. The dimmed echoes of angry voices were resounding ever louder as she came closer; what Tyrion had described as a 'lovers' quarrel' had apparently evolved into a full blown argument.

"... you are an hypocritical fool, Jon Snow!" Daenerys' enraged voice was reverberating through the door, clashing against the stone walls, "You are the one who wanted to ride Rhaegal into battle with one arm less!"

"But I didn't!" Jon's voice slammed back, his tone seemingly rising with each syllable. "I don't want my wife to..."

"Your wife?!"

And the utter fury in her voice as she let out those two simple words had made Sansa stop in her tracks, throwing a sharp wary glance at the door as she quietly pondered the possibility of turning away and coming back at a more opportune moment - how she always managed to find herself caught up in such melodrama, she'd never know.

"I might be you wife, Jon, but I am also the queen just as you are the king, you do not order me around!"

"Dany," Jon spoke again, "I need you safe... I need... you are..."

But the queen cut him off, anger never leaving her voice, "I need you safe just as much Jon, and yet I said nothing when I found you covered in your own blood! You could not command from the back anymore than I am able to, could you?" there was a short pause before she continued, her voice suddenly cold, "My decision has been made, and I will not change it."

A deafening silence had followed the argument, and Sansa had just made the decision to come back at a later time when the door suddenly slammed open on her brother's furious face. He barely acknowledged her presence as he stormed past her, his anger burning with such heat she could have sworn to have felt it on her skin, leaving her stunned in his wake.

"Lady Sansa, I... how much did you hear?"

Daenerys Targaryen had appeared in the door-frame, her silver hair, wild and unbound, were flowing on her thin shoulders, her glimmering violet eyes had widened in surprise as she peered at her, "By all means," she spoke again, slightly stepping aside, her back straightening as she found her composure anew, "come inside."

And too bewildered to find her voice again, Sansa obeyed.

"I apologise, your Grace," she said a couple of minutes later, regaining her usual poise and sitting down on the chair that the dragon queen had drawn for her, "I did not mean to eavesdrop."

They had made their way inside, and Daenerys took place in front of her, legs neatly crossed and chin held high, her glance intently searching her face; Sansa looked away at that, eyes sweeping the room quickly, from the window, to the bed, stopping on Ghost's white form laid at its foot, and back on Daenerys' face again they were.

"And I did not mean for you to hear any of that, my Lady, I apologise likewise," the queen replied looking away in turn and losing her glance somewhere in the distance, "Is there something you need?"

Sansa studied her, titling her head slightly as she noticed her tensed shoulder and her lips pressed together in a thin line: she was concerned and angry. "My brother can be stubborn," she tried, voice tentative, drawing Daenerys' glance toward her once more, "He knows he can't protect everybody all the time, and yet he will keep trying to the end, no matter the odds and no matter the cost. It is hardly a surprise that he would try to shield you even if he already knows that you do not need nor want it."

Her violet eyes turned toward her, boring at her with a new kind of intensity, and Sansa held her gaze as the queen reached to pour the both of them hot tea in ornate wooden cups.

" _Issa iā mittys, nyke kostagon daor..._ ," the Queen started, anger creeping on her tone, and frustration obvious on her voice despite the foreign words, "I am with child, I am not weak, I have ridden through the arid desert sea of Essos while carrying life bef..."

She had cut herself at once, putting her mask on once more, as if afraid to have said too much, "I must apologise again, my Lady, I did not mean to erupt at you."

Sansa considered her gravely before responding, blue eyes studying her face with care, "I doubt he thinks you weak, your grace but he..." she paused, her gaze falling on her hands in search of her words, "What do you know about the battle for Winterfell, your Grace?"

"Only what the whispers say."

Sansa frowned, taking a sip from her cup as she organised her thoughts, "Jon, he..." she hesitated, taking a deep breath, "The whispers are all true, but they do not tell the whole story, Jon faced the cavalry because he charged ahead to save Rickon... our brother," she added quickly before continuing, "he would have done anything to save him, and he tried even if it meant losing his life, even if it meant losing the war. I think perhaps he is afraid to have to choose again, knowing exactly what his choice would be."

The queen remained silent at that, looking down at her drink, her long and graceful fingers tightening around the wooden goblet.

"He is stubborn and he loves fiercely, it is his strength and his failure, it almost lost us Winterfell but it also won it back for us."

"I'm not sure I am following you, my Lady," Daenerys said, her tone as composed as ever.

"The Wildings would all die for him," Sansa explained, "and it is the reason you are here, isn't it?"

"Perhaps." the queen admitted in a whisper, her lips brushing at the edge of her cup.

Sansa nodded, "And it is a good thing that you came, I have come to find."

The fierce violet of her gaze looked back at her fixedly, tense pupils reading her face with utmost caution, "You were not always convinced of that," she observed, keeping her voice controlled.

"If you have heard the whispers, your Grace," Sansa replied, holding her eyes with strength as Petyr Baelish's face, selling her to the Boltons, appeared in her mind, "Then you must know why I do not place my trust in strangers quite so easily."

"I have heard, and I do know," Daenerys acquiesced.

"If the whispers I have heard about you are true, then you must know indeed."

Sansa's eyes never left her face as she uttered those words, and the queen did not answer, a tacit acknowledgement passing in between them instead, lingering heavy in the silence that followed.

"If I might, my Lady," Daenerys asked after a while, her voice strangely pensive as they both finished their drinks, "what made you decide that I was worth your trust."

Sansa pondered the question, her gaze finding Ghost; his white head had risen from the ground, the red of his eyes focusing on hers, "Because I think you are like him, your Grace," she finally answered, "you are stubborn and you love fiercely."

–

She had always been talented with threads and needles, turning golden fibers and simple fabrics into lavish and sumptuous embroideries. She always understood patterns ever since she had been a young girl, she was good at taking separate elements and knowing how they could fit together, molding them into an intricate whole once patiently picked and sewn and laced into complex motifs. Politics were not much different, she had come to find, threads and needles prickling at the fabric of the world, warring kings drawing maps out of wars with the point of a sword or the strategy of a long negotiated alliance.

She had been nothing but a soft cotton in this never ending game once, used and stitched and torn apart when the seamstresses that made the world had seen it useful, but somewhere along the way, she had pushed back against all odds to become the needle instead.

"My Lady," Yohn Royce, greeted her politely as he entered her study, his head bent in respect, "you asked for me?"

Sansa turned her attention away from the pile of scrolls she had been reading and looked at him - inventory would wait.

"Indeed my Lord," she responded, her lips stretching in an amiable smile, "any news from Lord Arryn?"

The older man had an awkward breath, averting his eyes and fidgeting slightly on his feet, "Not yet, my Lady."

"Not yet?" she responded, her eyebrows raising in discontent, but keeping her voice contained, "I told the Queen, upon your assurance, that her men would be able to land safely in the Vale after taking the sea in White Harbour, my Lord, did I lie to her? Did I lie to the King, my brother?"

"You didn't, my Lady, I assure you, the Vale will remain an ally of the North through this war. It will remain an ally of the Starks after that."

She observed him intently, her eyes fixating on his, blue meeting brown in an attempt to gauge him. One of the men who had so readily listened to Littlefinger's poisonous words was standing before her; he had been so quick to turn on the King he had just seen crowned at the time, was it any different now?

"I am grateful for your loyalty toward my family, my Lord," she said, keeping suspicion out of her tone as it was no time to forgo diplomacy, "but can the Dragons count the Vale as their allies the same?"

"They can," he answered, features hardening under her scrutiny.

"Good" she replied, keeping her blue stare on him, her voice firm yet courteous, "because my brother is right; the North will not be the only victim of Winter if we let the Army of the Dead go through the Neck unchallenged. You heard him, my Lord, we have no time for petty quibbles, we need the Vale's full commitment."

"And you have it, my Lady, there will be no quibbles of any kind, you have my word."

'How much that word is worth is the question,' she had wanted to say at that, her mind racing with everything that still needed to be done. For as long as Sweetrobin himself had neither pledged nor committed, Lord Royce's words would keep ringing hollow in her ears, she had learned to distrust wind vanes such as him after all, and as far as she could see, he had long proven that his loyalty was laying entirely with his lord. 'Robin Arryn might be a nitwit,' she thought to herself then, 'but he is a useful nitwit.' She could not begrudge Lord Royce for keeping faith with his liege-lord of course, it was just most unfortunate that a copious amount of the only plan they had left to survive was solely resting on said liege-lord ability to think rationally.

Sansa closed her eyes in tiredness as she walked into the crypts a while later, the ache of pain pounding in her temples had yet to dim, she felt utterly worn out.

"Of course you are here," she noted, as her gaze stopped on his silhouette standing a few feet away from her, "I should have known as you practically live here those days."

Jon's dark eyes darted at her quickly before trailing back toward the carved face of his mother, and for the space of a few seconds, she had felt as if transported back a few weeks ago, to another conversation in this very room, bathed in the same orange gleam of the flames hung above their heads and talking of a truth that neither of them had had the time to process.

"I like the solitude," he said without glancing back, "You were looking for me I presume?"

She walked toward him and stood at his side, her eyes finding Lyanna's statue, "Robin Arryn," she started, her voice dismissive, "the fool has yet to reply."

"We need the Vale secured, Sansa," he responded, with an impatient gesture of his hand, "where else can we land, when we..."

"I know that Jon, I heard you the first time," she interrupted him, slightly irked, "why do you think I am here telling you?"

He inhaled sharply, his face burdened in concern and his hand messing his dark hair as he started to pace around, the sound of his steps bouncing in echoes against the cold stones, "I would rather we do not have to display nor use our strength," he said, his voice sounding oddly like a warning as his eyes found hers once again, "but we will, if we have to."

"I am aware," she answered, taken aback by the harshness of his tone.

"I thought you had their loyalty," he said not without annoyance, going back and forth on his steps.

She sighed, "I spoke to Lord Royce already, he assured me that the Vale would keep its word."

He stopped in his tracks then, the grey of his gaze peering at her, "Can we trust him?"

"No," she responded without an ounce of hesitation, she hardly believed in trust as of late, "Not entirely. This is why I am telling you."

They fell into silence at that, their eyes lifting toward Lyanna Stark once more; her stone face looking as if it was moving under the flicker of the fire that surrounded them.

"I'm sorry," he confided after a while, "It is not you I am weary of."

She acknowledged him with a gesture of her head, too aware of the weight of responsibilities placed on his shoulders to begrudge him, "Is it the first time that you visit her?" she asked without hoping for an answer and more to divert the conversation away than anything else.

And he remained silent indeed, his frame slightly shifting in discomfort next to her.

"Do you remember," she tried then, her voice softening, "when we were children and we came here to play with Robb?"

He had a genuine chuckle, his gaze mellowing with tenderness as it locked on her, "Aye I do, and I remember you getting scared."

"And I remember you scaring me, you enjoyed it quite a bit if I recall," she replied in a quick smile, soft on her lips like a butterfly on a flower.

He returned her smile, gazing away and body motionless.

"I'm sorry," he spoke suddenly after a moment of silence, back stiffened and voice careful, his dark curls falling on his eyes.

"What for?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him, "It was a long time ago, and I can hardly say that it was entirely undeserved."

Their relationship would never come easy, she knew. It would always be defined by the way she had once treated him: she would never be Arya, she would never understand him as easily as their sister could as a part of him would never allow it. They would always need to work harder in order to meet in the middle, they would always have to dance around the invisible scars her mother had left on him, the scars she had unwittingly helped carve and that he had kept hidden underneath the inscrutable mask he always wore, never giving away an inch of ground.

"It is not why I am apologising," he explained giving their father's likeness a vague gesture of his head without entirely looking at him, "I'm sorry for speaking to you the way I did when... well you know,"

"When you found out who you truly are? There is nothing to forgive, Jon," she answered, echoing his words from long ago.

She could recall that day as if it had been just a moon ago; seeing the Wall for the first time and reuniting with the only family she had thought she had left at the time, her heart racing oddly as he had walked toward her, his face contorted in disbelief and awe all at once. She would never be Arya to him, she knew, but here and now it didn't matter for they had come such a long way from where they used to be, they had rebuilt their sibling bond from the ashes of a childhood that time had long left cold, and they had done it stronger and better this time. He was her brother and she his sister, and they loved each other as such all the same. Perhaps Jon Snow would never let her in entirely, but Jon Snow would also die for her; it was a strange thing to be sure of after all those years.

He laughed softly at her words, his eyes turning ever tender, "Forgive me, regardless?" he asked.

"Alright, I forgive you," she said, the ghost of her smile lingering on her lips.

He stepped toward her then, taking her face in between the palm of his hands to place a soft kiss on her forehead, and a pang of sadness had shattered in her chest at that, the memory of her father doing the same thing jolting in her brain at once.

"Jon," she said then, her glance meeting his, doubting she'd find another moment to tell him, "I will not go with you."

His eyes grew wide, his body tensing as her words bounced in between the tombstones, "What?"

She had been three and ten all those years ago, a lost girl in the heat of King's Landing, in search for a life that she had never been meant to lead. She had wanted to marry a prince, to wear a crown, to see the heat of the southern sun turn her skin a pale golden. She had wanted, she had desired and she had been wrong.

"I will not leave Winterfell," she insisted, her gaze holding his as he was about to protest.

She had learned to see politics as she saw threads, leading somewhere, meaning something, she had long been blind to where she fitted in the pattern, she no longer was now, her father had always been right, she was of the North.

–

"Are you sure you are not coming, my Lady?"

Tyrion Lannister had taken place next to her, his eyes following the glance she had kept in the distance. Sky and land were joining in the purple glow of dawn; the sun was rising on the horizon for what would be too short of a day.

"Somebody has to stay here to oversee the supply line, and to stay with Bran," Sansa replied.

She had made this point to Jon time and again since she had told him: Bran, she had argued, would not want to leave the Godswood behind, and indeed had no intention of doing so, Weirwood trees were few and far between south of the Wall, and even fewer the lower you went into the realm.

"Then I will tie him on Rhaegal's back if I have to," he had asserted, his voice strangely serene.

"You are being unreasonable."

She had found him in his study that day, and he had stood from his chair to face her, looking calm and deadly and very much the picture of the king that he had become.

"Unreasonable?" he had interrupted her, staring at her straight in the eyes and keeping his voice guarded, "Why is it unreasonable for me to want my family to be safe? Why is it unreasonable to want my w..."

He had cut himself off then, sitting back down and swallowing with difficulty, his head thrown backward in clear frustration as he closed himself back off, and she had narrowed her eyes at him, gaze searching his face in scrutiny – she always felt like praying to the gods for him to let her in, in moments such as those.

"It is not unreasonable to want your loved ones safe, Jon," Sansa had replied, keeping her exasperation at bay, "But it is unreasonable to expect them to be regardless of one's wants. As I told you before, no one is safe, we have to make our own justice in this world."

He had snorted without looking back at her, "That sounds like the sort of rubbish Baelish would have said, but in a more elegant way perhaps."

"He did teach me some valuable wisdom," she admitted, her eyes peering at him.

But Jon hadn't replied, and so she continued, "I told you many times that I did not need you to protect me."

"You also told me to not become the lone wolf."

She sighed, "And I still mean that, but we won't be for as long as we are loyal." She paused for a few seconds, intently searching for her words. "Stop trying to look after me Jon, I do not need it and neither does she."

"She?" He asked returning her a quick glance.

She had rolled her eyes at that, "Your wife, I know that you have been arguing back and forth about exactly that since a few days."

"I don't think you know everything, Sansa," he replied, features darkening.

"Perhaps not, but I know enough, and I know you. I know that you cannot protect everybody," and she had taken his hand in hers, forcing him to meet her eyes, "You have to stop trying."

He had a defeated sigh, finally relenting, but held her gaze, "Tormund is staying with you, and there is no point arguing it." Sansa had nodded in agreement, feeling herself relax as his fist tightened around her small fingers.

A couple of days later, she still felt strangely at peace. Standing atop the walls of Winterfell and overlooking the snowy hill that surrounded the fortress, unfocused eyes lost in the distance where the horizon was greeting waves after waves of men disappearing behind its faraway line.

"I hope I will see you again one day, my Lord," she spoke to Tyrion again, her pupils finding his face.

He was standing motionless at her side, seemingly half lost in thoughts, "Says almost no one ever that I can remember. Granted I spent most of it drunk, but still."

She caught herself smiling, "I'm sure your brother said it quite a few times."

"Hence the 'almost'", he replied, dryly.

"Well," she answered smiling wider, "There is a first time for everything."

"Indeed," he agreed, "And I do still owe you an annulment... technically."

"You do, my Lord, and I am too young to be a widow twice over."

"You are," he agreed in a slight chuckle, "and I haven't been the lord of anything in a long time, my Lady,"

"And yet you are worthier of the title than most," she pointed out, eyebrows frowning.

He held her gaze for a few seconds, a strange fire catching in the depth of his eyes, "I suppose the bar has always been low enough for a dwarf."

"With southern lords, perhaps," she said, looking directly at him, "but I am of the North."

Her words sunk into the silence for a while, an emotion she couldn't quite name etching on his rough features, "Goodbye, my Lady," he finally spoke, a gentle smile stretching on his lips.

An odd warmth had spread in her chest at that, "Goodbye my Lord."

–

The snow was as solid as ice under her feet, the wheels of Bran's chair rolling easier on the hard ground as she pushed him in front of her. Her heavy cape was catching the freezing wind and floating behind her like an open wing as they made their way in the silence of dusk. She was taking her brother to the Weirwood tree and Winterfell was oddly calm: Arya and Jon had left the day before, accompanied by the Dragon queen, the last of the men following in their trail.

"Don't do anything stupid, please," she had told Arya then, holding her in a tight embrace as they had been standing in her chambers.

"I can survive on my own," she had replied, tearing herself away from her.

She knew that of course, and so she said nothing, turning toward Jon who had been standing awkwardly next to Bran, his hand squeezing tightly at his shoulder.

"I can't convince either of you to come, can I?" he had asked, his dark resigned eyes traveling back and forth between the both of them.

She had smiled at him sadly, "No, but I have something of me that you can take with you, or rather something that I had made for you."

And Sansa had turned toward her bed where an armor had been waiting, gesturing for him to follow.

"I know that yours has been mended," she said shyly, unable to prevent the nervousness from spilling on her voice, "But I figured that..."

Sansa had glanced toward his face, throwing him a sharp look; a tide of unreadable emotions had crashed on his feature as his grey eyes had remained fixated on the glistering sigil spread over the breastplate. The intertwined Stark wolf and Targaryen dragon were glistering under the white winter light, piercing brightly through the open window.

"You can wear it when you are ready, if you wish."

Her whisper had been just enough to reach his ear, and he had swept her into his arm, her head resting against his healing shoulder.

"You are in charge of the North," he had said after that, regaining his composure.

She had nodded at him and opened her mouth to reply, but Bran's voice, pregnant with a rare display of emotion had resounded behind her, drawing her glance toward him: "Stay alive," he had said, his face blank still, despite the urgency in his voice.

And then they had gone, leaving her to wonder if she'd ever look upon their faces again. 'Perhaps this short reunion had been nothing but borrowed time' she had pondered to herself, sitting at the foot of the white tusk, red leaves sheltering her from the winter blizzard, 'gods be kind, and let them come back,' she had prayed quietly, finding comfort in her faith.

She had been taken out of her thoughts by Bran's sudden gasp, jumping on her feet at once to kneel in front of him in the snow, the Weirwood tree casting a dark shadow over them both, and taking his cold hand in hers, she had asked in earnest: "What is it? What did you see?"

His eyes had turned brown again, anchoring himself in the present by focusing on her face, "The Night King," he said, breath catching in his throat, "I know who he is, and I know what he wants."

* * *

 _AN:_ _I know that it has been almost a month since the last time I updated and I apologize for the huge delay: turn out that I am still not back home, and I don't really have free evenings at the moment, which is usually when I like to write. That plus the fact that I had a hard time getting through this chapter and I'm still not 100% happy with it mostly because I know this chapter will not please everybody since I realise Sansa is not everyone's cup of tea, but it needs to be there so... all of this means that I have been writing at snail pace. The good news is that after next chapter the rhythm of publishing should be back to normal (about once a week). So I'll see you next time with Jon, and if you are still around, thank you._


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